


The Great Laws of the Human Soul

by wildwinterwitch



Series: Great Laws [1]
Category: Blackpool, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 11:31:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwinterwitch/pseuds/wildwinterwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose Tyler has a great friendship with a man whom she only knows through his emails. DCI Peter Carlisle tries to find out why there's a photo of him in a book about a man who lived almost a century ago. And while Sherlock Holmes becomes a consulting pirate to assist in a new case, John Watson does a bit of deducing of his own about his friend's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Setting: up to The Parting of the Ways of Doctor Who, up to the point when Peter decides to step down from the case and leave Blackpool without Natalie in Blackpool, and for Sherlock up to the point when Sherlock leaves Mycroft and Irene after the Bond Air scene in A Scandal in Belgravia.

And dimly she realised one of the great laws of the human soul: that when the emotional soul receives a wounding shock, which does not kill the body, the soul seems to recover as the body recovers. But this is only appearance. It is, really, only the mechanisms of reassumed habit. Slowly, slowly the wound to the soul begins to make itself felt, like a bruise which only slowly deepens its terrible ache, till it fills all the psyche. And when we think we have recovered and forgotten, it is then that the terrible after-effects have to be encountered at their worst.

– D H Lawrence, _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_  


Part One  
— Injury —

One

This is the way you left me  
I'm not pretending  
No hope, no love, no glory  
No happy ending  
This is the way that we love  
Like it's forever  
Then live the rest of our life  
But not together  
– Mika, _Happy Ending_

Rose led a life in a golden cage. Although she didn’t want for anything, she wanted everything she'd had on the Powell Estate; including noisily fighting or fucking neighbours, the smell of food in the stairwell, the draughty windows and the Christmas-tree-shaped scar in the hall wall. Instead, she had an impersonal, modern flat in a posh building overlooking the Thames, complete with a concierge and a key code that sent her to the top floor flat where she lived now.

She tightened her grip on the railing and looked down on the people strolling past her building on the embankment, enjoying the sunny spell and the food and drink stalls that had been set up to celebrate summer solstice. A little ways downstream the replica of a pirate ship was moored to the quay, a new tourist attraction after they’d finished shooting the last of the pirate film trilogy two summers earlier. Rose was sure the Doctor would have had a word or two to say about historical accuracy, but he had left her behind long ago.

A soft sound alerted her of an incoming email, interrupting her reminiscence of him yet again. It was surprising how painful they still were, even after all this time. Her iPad was sitting on the coffee table; she picked it up, settling down on the sofa. She had chosen it for comfort mostly, but also because she liked the design, comfortable rather than stylish. 

When she read the return address, her heart sped up and she smiled, genuinely for the first time that day. Any message from PaisleyBoy had that effect on her. Being friends with him was something the old Rose would have done as well. But what would have been pretty ordinary for the old Rose was completely extraordinary for the new Rose. It was the only normal thing she had in her life. 

But of course calling PaisleyBoy ordinary or normal was an insult to him. He was anything but ordinary and normal. His kind, witty reply to her misdirected email had led to a flurry of messages which soon turned into a wonderful friendship. They knew each other very well. There was only one rule to their friendship, which was never to talk about what they did for a living. Rose knew, however, that he was with the Met, but all PaisleyBoy knew about her was that she was part of a family-run business. It was quite the understatement, but he had never questioned it.

Rose often wished the men she met in real life were more like him. Meeting Mr Right proved difficult, but Mum had once said that Mickey and the Doctor were both hard acts to follow. And she was right. Who could possibly live up to the standards Mickey and the Doctor had set? 

PaisleyBoy could, but there was The Rule, and, anyway, Mum didn’t know about him.

Rose opened his latest email.

_Dear lupamala,_

_I’ve read the book in one sitting. It was that good. I cried. I cried! I. Cried. You were right. I do have a heart after all. There. I’ve said it._

_I just wanted to send you a quick thank-you note._

_I’d really like to reply to your last email in more detail ― lots more detail ― but I’m afraid that I’m ready to drop. It’s been a weird couple of days and I need my beauty sleep (not that it’d help much). Something potentially demanding has come up at work and I need all my wits about me._

_Hoping you’re all right._

_Love, PB_

Rose laughed out loud before she clapped her hand over her mouth. PB had really cried over the book. She’d never have expected that. Hoped, yes, because PB was a lot like her in many regards. He was lonely and heartbroken. She had read as much between the lines as they’d started that particular conversation, but she had no idea who it was he had lost. 

Reading the book had been a very cathartic experience for her. She had finally been able to leave behind her anger at the Doctor. It was only about grief now, and she knew that it would get better. Eventually. 

It had been almost six years since he’d left her behind, and there were still days when she missed him so much she pushed herself really hard at work so she didn’t have time to think about it. It had made her strong. 

_Dear PB,_

_I’m glad that you liked the book. I can’t wait to read more about your reaction. And I hope that work thing won’t be too demanding. I’d really miss your emails._

_Sleep well._

_Love,_

_lupamala_

She tapped the send button and closed the lid of her iPad. 

She had made PB cry. Well, not technically because she hadn’t written the book, but she had recommended it to him. And he had listened to her. PB was an avid reader, and it was thanks to him that she had discovered the pleasures of reading. English classes at school had not really been able to make her appreciate literature. At the time, other things had been more interesting. Like Jimmy Stone.

The TARDIS had held a vast library, and the sheer number of books had so intimidated her that she’d been too scared to pick up a single book. The Doctor had said nothing. She knew now that she would have liked him to introduce her to reading. PB had done that for her, and, in a way, it was good that it was him. She felt closer to him because of it. She just had to be careful not to let him get too close. Anything more was out of the question. It was The Rule.

Besides, she was terrified of him finding out who she really was. She knew he wouldn’t run away, but he’d still probably be intimidated enough that he’d find it hard not to see Rose Tyler, not just lupamala.

Rose clenched her jaw. No, it was certainly better this way. 

Her phone trilled and she stood to take it out of her handbag. The number on the display wasn’t one she recognised, and she was about to decline the call. But she accepted it anyway.

”Yeah?” she said, cupping her forehead with her palm. She wasn’t really in the mood right now. It had been a very busy week, and she’d been looking forward to a few days of rest. She had forbidden Jackie to call her.

”Rose? It’s me. Irene.”

Rose leaned against the wall. It couldn’t be. This couldn’t possibly be her friend. Irene Adler had died at the hands of a madman who had taken her face before he had taken her life.

”Who is this?” she asked, her brow knitting as her initial shock was replaced by anger.

”Rose, love, it _is_ me,” Irene insisted. 

The voice sounded right. Irene sounded right, her voice soft and mellow, as it always did when she was just herself. When she tried to seduce her.

”Irene?” Rose asked dumbly. But her friend was dead.

”Rose, I know. It’s a long story. I’m not really supposed to talk to you,” Irene said.

”Oh,” Rose finally found her powers of reasoning return. She knew about The Phone, of course. ”Tell me you haven’t lost it.”

Irene chuckled. It was a sad sound. No. Sad was the wrong word. She sounded lugubrious. ”I have, in a way. But listen, love, I’m _free_ now.”

”You are?”

”Yes. Death isn’t too bad,” Irene said. ”How are you, Rose?”

”Well, you know me. I’m all right.”

”That’s why I’m asking. I’m worried about you, love,” Irene said. ”You look… like you need someone to play with.”

”I don’t play, Irene,” Rose kindly reminded her. She wasn’t one for casual sex, and the one time she and Irene had played was just that, a game; a game that left Rose longing for something more profound and meaningful. Irene, however, wasn’t the person to give that to her, and while Rose loved her as a friend, it just wasn’t enough. They had tried, but it hadn’t worked for Rose. It had been a mistake, really. They’d both lost control when they ended up in bed together. It had happened after a great dinner party, and while Irene had been herself as she made love to her, Rose had been unable to let herself go.

”Shame,” Irene said in that mocking way she sometimes had. ”No, but I’m really worried, Rose. There’s a group out there. On the Internet. They call themselves Pirates. They are taking it a step too far worshipping you.”

Rose sighed and slid down the wall so she sat on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest. She was aware of the fanatics among her fans. Apart from the people running the fan site she endorsed she didn’t interact with her fans online. And that was always through Mickey, never directly. They had decided that it was better that way.

“How serious is this?” Rose asked. Mickey hadn’t breathed a word to her about it, but that was him protecting her, of course. If anyone, she could trust Irene to be honest with her.

”I’ve asked Sherlock to look into it,” Irene said.

”Sher ―” Rose began. ”Are you mad, woman?”

Irene laughed.

”That arrogant git?” Rose asked. ”Why would he waste his time with a group of perverts?”

”You don’t want to know,” Irene replied.

”Well, I’m sure it’s not because you asked him nicely,” Rose scoffed. Irene had told her a few things about Sherlock Holmes, and, at her recommendation, she’d read both John Watson’s blog and Holmes’ website. Sherlock Holmes had come across as a cold, arrogant man without any sense of tact at all. A brilliant man, granted, but he’d gotten all the brains and none of the graces.

”You and I know that that will never work,” Irene said, and then continued, in her purring voice, ”although that doesn’t stop me trying.”

Rose smiled. It was just like Irene to try to conquer that man. There wasn’t a challenge too hard for her. ”No, but really, Irene, is it that bad?” Rose asked.

”There is evidence, yes,” Irene admitted eventually.

”Do I need to be worried?” Rose asked. ”Do I need to… protect myself?”

”Sherlock’s on it, but it wouldn't hurt to be extra careful for a while,” Irene said.

Rose tipped her head back. What was it with life these days? Why couldn’t she just be left alone for a while? ”Are you safe, Irene?” she asked.

”I am,” Irene assured her. Her usual flippant yes wouldn’t have been enough, Irene knew that and saved them the trouble by answering sincerely for once.

”I don’t suppose we can meet? I’d love to talk to you. It’s been ages,” Rose said, knowing what the answer would be.

”No, not yet,” Irene said. ”But I promise to get in touch as soon as possible. I’m just not sure if we can meet in person again.”

Rose smiled, lifting her head. That wouldn’t be too bad. If she could have with Irene what she had with PB she’d be happy enough. After all, Irene was alive and well. Writing and chatting to her over the phone was better than thinking her dead.

”Thanks for warning me,” Rose said. 

After they had ended the call it occurred to Rose that she hadn’t asked if Sherlock Holmes might need to speak to her in person. She wasn’t sure she was ready to meet the famous detective in the flesh. She needed to talk to Mickey.

Rose stood and padded back outside. Somewhere out there was a group of people intent on hurting her out of a sense of misguided adoration. She shivered. At the Powell Estate, at least, she’d felt safe. She wasn’t sure if she liked this golden cage.

 

-:-

 

Irene tapped the phone against her chin, staring out over the grounds. Where the vast garden sloped a little, the sea became visible. It was a beautiful sight, but it didn't calm her. In fact, it was far too calm for her tastes up here. If only she could go to town. But even the small town near where she was staying was too dangerous for her right now. Not that she had any idea where she was.

The sea glistened in the far distance where the sunlight dripped into it, and there was a mild breeze that made the June heatwave bearable. The air was dry, and Irene had wondered for a while what was missing. Then one night as she lay awake she realised that it was the salty tang that she usually associated with the sea that wasn't there.

She felt him creep up behind her, so she neither flinched nor protested when he plucked his phone from between her fingers. 

”I told you not to call anyone,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He was standing very close behind her.

”Ah, but you know me,” she said, looking over her shoulder. Sherlock’s expression was one of affectionate indulgence. She’d never expected him to look at her like that ― or at anyone else for that matter. Maybe John, if he was in a particularly good mood. Definitely John. Lucky man.

”Exactly,” he said. He swiped his finger over the display to check the number she had just called. ”Oh, that’s a new one. Whose is it?”

”Rose Tyler’s,” she said, turning to face him. He didn’t move away, apparently unconcerned by her close proximity.

”Who’s she?” he asked.

”A friend,” she said, running her fingers along his collar and down his chest. He pocketed the phone. ”A real friend.”

He exhaled. She knew what was coming. ”Sherlock, I know I’m not supposed to call anyone, but in this case, it was important,” she said.

”You could have ―” he began.

”No. This isn’t something you’d tell anyone via a messenger boy,” she said, dropping her hand. She stepped around him and curled up in one of the armchairs. They were surprisingly modern and comfortable for a place like this. The whole place was surprisingly modern and comfortable. It was a great place to hide away for a week or two, but after a while it became a golden cage. She had been here for almost three weeks now.

”A love note?” Sherlock said, quirking an eyebrow. As nice as it was to have him here, it was also very annoying because he seemed impervious to her attempts to seduce him.

”Jealous?” she asked.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes in that oh-please way she liked so much about him.

She smiled.

The tension was gone.

”Seriously though,” she said. ”I am worried about her. I assume you’ve never heard of her?”

”No.” He slumped into the other armchair, stretching his long legs out. He was barefoot, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead and above his perfect cupid’s bow. He looked good enough to eat, but he had no idea. There had been a time when Irene had wondered if he knew, and was just able to hide it very well, but now she knew that he was really completely unaware of his own attractiveness. He was a challenge.

”Rose is behind the Vitex drinks,” Irene said. ”Her late father left her and her mother the recipe.”

”Ah,” he said. You’d have to be quite a bit behind the times if you didn’t know about Vitex. They were fizzy, fruity drinks but actually quite healthy and available in a range of unusual flavours, such as elderberry and pear, or orange and ginger. ”They have made Rose and Jackie a fortune. They found the original recipe in some of Pete Tyler’s papers while spring-cleaning their flat, and the rest, as they say, is history,” she explained.

Sherlock made a face. ”How touching. The J K Rowlings of soft drinks,” he commented.

”Rose is very popular, and because of the Peter Tyler Trust she’s also a very public figure. Believe it or not, she has a lot of fans,” she said.

Sherlock grunted, steepling his fingers. He was being very patient.

”There is a group of fans, however, that seem to be taking their hero-worship a step too far,” Irene continued. ”There’s chatter on the internet of the group planning something.”

”Are they stalking her?” Sherlock asked, dropping his restless hands into his lap. He was doing quite well without his cigarettes, but being cooped up here without anything to do was wearing on him.

”Cyber-stalking at least. Stalking in real life too, probably. That’s what worries me so. The things I’ve heard…”

Sherlock sat up. ”This is coming from you, the Woman? The former dominatrix who nearly broke the government?”

”Sherlock, you insult me,” she said mildly. He knew perfectly well that the dominatrix was a job, and a role she played. ”I’m wondering if you’re beginning to like the idea of me making you beg for mercy,” she purred.

”Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. She had him.

”Do you want me to tell Lestrade?” he asked.

”I was hoping you’d be able to find out who these people are,” she said, putting her feet on the floor and leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, offering Sherlock a view down her décolletage. But his eyes remained fixed on her face, of course.

”Do you think I can foil their evil schemes?”

”No, I think that you can find out a lot more about them than the police, and a lot more discreetly too,” she said, reaching out to touch his knee. He covered her hand with his. 

”You don’t happen to have done any preliminary research yet, have you?” he asked, his voice becoming that low rumble again. Damn the man. He knew exactly what he was doing.

”I haven’t, but I know the group calls itself the Pirates, and I know that you’ve always wanted to be a pirate. Be one now. For me. For Rose,” she said.

”You seem to be much better at this,” he said. ”The internet is so clinical. There isn’t much I can deduce.”

Irene dropped forwards onto her knees. ”Oh?” she cooed, cupping his hot cheek. ”Are you admitting you’re… a fish out of water?”

”There’s no shame in admitting that. I am good with people,” he said.

Irene raised an eyebrow.

”I’m good at _reading_ people. The internet… it just won’t do, not in this case,” he said.

”But you’ll tell Lestrade? Please,” she said, ”I’d tell him, but I can’t.”

Sherlock nodded, plucking her hand from his cheek to breathe a kiss over her knuckles.

”Can I do something at least? It’s just the internet,” she said.

He stared at her as if she were the most dimwitted person he’d ever met. ” _Just_ the internet? A minute ago you were telling me how worried you are about those cyber stalkers.”

”I am good at playing roles. I can become a Pirate,” she said.

”I’ll tell Lestrade,” he said. 

Irene smiled, sitting back on her heels. Her hand was still in Sherlock’s. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles.


	2. Two

Two

You can't always get what you want  
But if you try sometimes, well, you just might find  
You get what you need  
— The Rolling Stones, _You Can’t Always Get What You Want_

”You want me to do what?” John asked, nearly spilling the tea. He had just prepared two mugs and was carrying them from the kitchen to the small table between the armchairs in front of the fireplace. Sherlock, who had stopped playing the violin as he watched him, casually resumed what he had been doing. John noted it was the piece he had composed after Irene’s death; or faux death, as it had turned out. 

When Sherlock didn’t answer, he set down his hot cargo on the table and went to get his laptop from the desk. He had been working on an entry — it was incredible how fast a back log built up when you weren’t looking — but that could wait. Sherlock had planted a seed with one sentence. John was still mystified how he did that, and he was a bit pissed off with himself for falling for it every single time, no matter how determined he had been not to allow it to happen again.

”Have you found the site?” Sherlock asked, depositing his Stradivarius in his armchair with a casual air before he stood behind John’s armchair to look over his shoulder as he worked.

”The internet isn’t that fast, Sherlock,” John said gently. WiFi in the flat had been acting up a bit lately, no doubt because of the heavy construction work going on all over the city in anticipation of the upcoming Olympic Games. 

Sherlock sighed in that exasperated way he had when people or technology couldn’t keep up with his mind.

”There she is,” John said as the site loaded. It showed a very beautifully done studio photograph of Rose Tyler. John had to hold his breath for a moment; he was familiar enough with Rose Tyler to picture her face in his mind when her name was mentioned, but what he saw now was far more beautiful than his memory.

”Why, exactly, did her name come up?” John asked. He couldn’t bring himself to look away from the photo. Her eyes were heavily, but tastefully, made up all in black to match the see-through black lace blouse she was wearing. Her full lips were puckered in the hint of a pout and glistening softly with pale pink gloss. Locks of honey-coloured hair were escaping the messy bun at the back of her head and giving the geometry of the composition a softness that matched the wistfulness in her dark eyes.

”Oh, it has come to my attention that some of her _fans_ ,” he sneered at the word, ”want to harm her in a misdirected attempt to worship her.”

They both stared at the photo for a few moments.

”Why does she have fans anyway?” Sherlock wondered. ”It can’t be Vitex alone.”

”No,” John replied. ”She’s quite popular because of her charity work and the title song she performed for the Pirates trilogy. I think she had a small cameo role in each of the three films as well.”

”Ah,” Sherlock said, straightening. He went to the table to pick up his mug of tea.

”What?”

”It explains why that particular group of fans calls itself the Pirates,” Sherlock explained in between sips.

”The group you want me to join.”

”Yes!” he replied in that drawn-out way that sounded like a teacher praising a particularly slow pupil.

John leaned back. ”I don’t think it’ll work.”

”What? Why?”

”Do you have any idea of how closely-knit these fan communities are? Particularly the truly fanatic ones? It’s based on trust, and if the Pirates really want to put their plan into action they will not exactly welcome a newbie with open arms,” John explained.

”And you know that because?”

John sighed. He’d meant to keep this a secret. Maybe there was a chance he could keep it that way. ”Experience.”

”Ah. You wouldn’t have been — or be — a fan?” Sherlock said in that playful tone that was so subtle it was easy to miss if you didn’t know him. John didn’t fall for it.

”No.”

”Hmm.”

Sherlock didn’t give up easily, so John knew not to be fooled when Sherlock turned towards the mantel to contemplate the skull, sipping his tea. John reached for his own mug and drank. The tea had a perfect temperature. Then Sherlock figured it out.

”What?”

John smirked into his mug.

”I have a fan site?” Sherlock asked. ”That is preposterous! As if the hat thing weren’t enough! Do they have any idea of how difficult they’ve made my work?”

John shrugged. He’d tried to find out more about that group of fans. They had set up a blog and a forum where they discussed things they knew, or _thought_ they knew. While it had been entertaining for a while to lurk and follow their discussions, there had come a point — like wondering about the more intimate details of Sherlock’s — and his! — love life that he had decided to leave fandom behind.

”You can read about crazy fans threatening their objects of adoration in the paper from time to time,” John pointed out. ”So the Pirates are definitely a force to be reckoned with.”

”Irene implied that time is of the essence,” Sherlock said.

”When isn’t it?” John muttered.

”So there really is no way to ingratiate yourself to them?” Sherlock asked.

”Not over the net alone,” John said. ”I think it might be better if I could actually meet them in person to gain their trust. But they know me. They know you.”

”Damn,” Sherlock said, slumping into his chair and wiggling his legs nervously. ”So it’d have to be Lestrade after all.”

John raised an eyebrow. ”It’s what I suggested we do.”

”Suggested to whom?”

”The person who told me there might be a problem.”

”Can’t that person try to find out more?” John asked.

”It’s complicated.”

Why was Sherlock being so evasive? Was he protecting someone?

”Can’t I assume that person’s internet identity and try to find out more?” he suggested.

Sherlock gnawed at his thumb nail, contemplating the pattern of the wallpaper on the far wall. Then he jumped up. ”I think that might work.” He stalked off to his room, robe billowing behind him, to get his phone.

”Maybe telling Lestrade would be a good idea anyway!” John shouted after him. There was no reply. He looked back at the screen. If this was to be taken seriously — and it was when Sherlock even considered it a case — then God help them. Poor Rose Tyler didn’t deserve this. 

He thought briefly, then clicked the _register_ button.

-:-

”You wanted to talk to me?” Peter said, knocking on DI Lestrade’s open door to make his presence known. He smiled. ”DCI Carlisle.”

”Yes, sir,” Lestrade said, rising. ”I’d have come to see you…”

”I was in the neighbourhood,” Peter said, smiling.

”Please, do come in. Have a seat,” Lestrade said.

Peter sat in the chair across from Lestrade. They had never met before but Peter knew him from the coverage of the more public cases the DI had worked, notably together with Sherlock Holmes. Rumour had it that falling back on the consultant’s services was what stood between the inspector and a promotion. But Peter didn’t want to judge. God knew he’d made a few mistakes in his career, and his promotion the previous year had been well-deserved.

”It has come to my attention that a public figure might be in serious danger from a group of, shall we say, zealous fans,” Lestrade said.

”Stalking,” Peter stated.

”Probably, yes.” Lestrade sat back in his chair, no doubt assessing him. Peter did the same. It was hard to guess his age; his salt-and-pepper hair and his gravelly, warm voice suggested that he was older than him, but then he was only an DI. He wore a good suit and a crisp shirt. Peter noticed the absence of a wedding band on his finger, but could also tell he had once worn one. Peter liked the seriousness of his dark eyes. 

”May I ask you who this public figure is?” Peter asked. They were probably talking about the same person, but there was no need to tell Lestrade that he was on top of things.

”It’s Rose Tyler,” Lestrade replied.

Peter nodded. ”We’ve been on the case a while. We’re closely monitoring them and we’ve managed to infiltrate the group in question. I take it we’re talking about the Pirates?”

Lestrade nodded, leaning forward. He rested his folded hands on top of the blotter. ”Yes, well, that’s good to know. Thank you.”

”My pleasure,” Peter said, rising.

”So, these guys, are they serious about their plans?” Lestrade asked, standing as well.

”We have reason to believe so, aye,” Peter said.

”Bastards,” Lestrade muttered.

”Quite,” Peter said, turning to go.

”Thanks for stopping by, sir,” Lestrade said. ”Would you mind telling me when you’ve caught them?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. ”You seem very interested in the case.”

”Yes, well,” Lestrade said.

”You like her. Miss Tyler,” he stated.

Lestrade shrugged. ”I like her work. Her charity work. My wife — she keeps telling me how her school projects manage to really make a difference.”

Peter believed him, but he also believed that there was more to it than a bit of hero worship. Rose Tyler was an attractive, intelligent woman. Her power and success appealed to many, but Peter had no doubt that meeting her in person might actually be quite intimidating. He had yet to talk to her about his investigation. It was reaching a stage where it would soon become necessary to tell her what was going on. So far, they had kept everything under wraps; there had been no need to inform her and to put her people on alert. The scare might have been just that, a scare, but now things were starting to look like they would get serious, and soon.

He knew he hadn’t exactly followed protocol in this case, but experience told him that in most cases all these threats and plans were just people trying to show off, wanting to get some attention. This time, however, things were different.

Peter nodded at Lestrade. ”I will, also because we’re trying to keep this low profile. I’m sure the last thing Miss Tyler wants is the media to fall upon her once everything’s over.”

”Thank you, sir. I really appreciate that,” Lestrade said.

Peter left, ruffling the hair at the back of his head. He was on his way out to meet Miss Tyler at her office to break the news to her. Since all he knew about her were the usual mixed-quality snippets of information he occasionally picked up in the papers, he had no idea what kind of a person she was. He never really paid much attention to the gossip rags. It might have been a good idea to follow news about her more closely to try to find out a bit about her, but it was too late for that now. Also, he preferred meeting people unbiased.

He ran his hand from the back of his neck to his jaw. He could feel the beginnings of a five-o’clock shadow, but there was no time now to shave. A glance at his watch told him that he was running late as it was. Ever since his transfer to London he had tried to put more effort into his appearance, particularly since he had risen to the rank of chief inspector, but he found that from time to time a bit of scruffiness proved useful.

He found an unmarked motor in the underground car park, and, after entering the address into the SatNav to make sure that her office was where he thought it was, he pulled out into the late afternoon London traffic. 

As he drove, he made a list of things he wanted to pick up before he exchanged the Met vehicle for his own car for the ride home. His fridge was almost empty, and he needed something to read. His bookshelves were well-stacked with unread material, but after he’d read the book lupamala had recommended to him he had been unable to find a story that sounded half as good as the one he had just finished. He hadn’t been exaggerating or humouring her when he’d told her he had cried. The story really had moved him to tears.

What book could possibly live up to such a story?

Maybe he should read non-fiction for a change. He certainly had three or four such books he hadn't read yet. Or maybe he should allow the book to choose him. Lupamala had started that conversation, and while he had laughed at the notion at first, it had also reminded him of himself as a young lad and doing exactly that. He had never been able to explain how that worked, he just knew that it did. It was probably a combination of title, cover artwork and blurb, but he hated overanalysing something wonderful, magical, like that. The world could do with a bit more magic.

Like, for example, his friendship with lupamala. He felt he could talk to her about anything. Their conversations were something he looked forward to, and he always took the time to read and reply to her emails carefully. Lupamala was a very clever woman. He had no idea how old she was. There were moments when he thought that she was young, going by references to pop culture, but then she said things that suggested she had seen and done a lot in her life. There were also the odd moments when she’d mention things he didn’t quite understand.

His mobile chirped and he fumbled for the BlueTooth earpiece. ”Carlisle,” he growled, concentrating on the road again.

”Sir, something has come up,” Lisa Gerrard, his trusted DI, informed him. She sounded anxious, and that meant something. She was usually calmness personified.

”In the Jolly Roger case?” He had no idea who had come up with that name, but it had been floating around the office for a while and then it had stuck.

”No, sir, it’s my case,” Lisa said.

”Really! About time too,” he said. Lisa had been working the case for ages, and she’d mentioned she might either make a breakthrough before the end of the week or have to close it unresolved. ”What do you need?”

”I need you to come back to the Yard, sir. I want you there for the interrogation,” she said.

”I was just on my way to Rose Tyler’s office,” he murmured. But this was more important. ”I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes. I’ll bring coffee and pastries.”

Lisa laughed. ”Thank you.”

”Can you do me a favour and call Miss Tyler? I haven’t got her number right now,” he asked.

”Of course,” Lisa said before she rang off.

 _Hopefully, Miss Tyler will be able to make time for me tomorrow,_ Peter thought and made an illegal u-turn to rive back to the Yard.

A few moments later, his phone rang again. It was Lisa. ”Aye?”

”We’re sending Jackson round to Miss Tyler’s,” she informed him. He was with the Protection Command.

”Good thinking,” Peter said. He should have sent Jackson to begin with, but something about the Jolly Roger case made him reluctant to let any part of it out of his hands. Involving Jackson’s department wasn’t strictly necessary, but Peter knew that they were the experts and knew best how to deal with a situation like this. He should really stick with the investigative part of it and try to find the people behind the Pirates. It had proved quite difficult so far, and that frustrated Peter. He pulled into the underground car park and hurried across the street to get the treats he had promised Lisa. Maybe he needed to be more forward in approaching the member of the group with whom he had struck up a conversation.

He was actually looking forward to being the menacing presence during the interview. It’d take his mind off things, even though it meant that going home early today and cooking dinner were off now. 

-:-

They had a little impromptu party after the interview. Lisa was now able to wrap the case up, get the paperwork in order so it could get moved to court. Peter had had more than his share of beer so he caught the Tube home. There was a bookshop on the way between his home and the Tube Station, and to his surprise it was still open. And then he remembered that they had a series of late night openings in honour of the upcoming solstice, the Games, and the store’s centenary. In truth, it was all about trying to attract people who worked late or long hours to come in rather than order online.

He smiled and entered the shop. An independent shop, it had been around for over one hundred years and it had retained much of its old charm. What modern furniture had been necessary to add was tasteful, and the armchairs and sofas that were scattered around in reading nooks were almost as comfortable as his own.

”Peter!” Claire cried when she saw him. The shop was busy, so the idea of being open longer seemed to pay off.

”Hello, love,” Peter said, smiling.

”Have you been celebrating? Without me?” Claire asked, winking. She loved playing the jealous lover although she was neither jealous nor his lover.

”Aye. One of my DIs closed a case successfully tonight,” he said.

”And that’s justice done again. I’m in awe of you people,” she said, putting down a stack of books so she could focus on him.

”Well, let’s see what court makes of it,” he said carefully.

”Did you enjoy _My Sister Lives on the Mantelpiece_ then? I didn’t have you down for someone who enjoys children’s books,” she asked.

”Have you been checking up on me?”

”No. So, did you?”

”Aye, it was very moving,” he said. For some reason telling her about his strong reaction felt like cheating on lupamala. It was irrational, of course, particularly because he counted Claire among his friends. He ruffled his hair. 

”Is there anything I can help you with?” Claire asked, scanning the shop. People were starting to cast searching glances at her, no doubt asking for help.

”Nah, I’ll be all right. You know my shelf of unread books.”

She nodded knowingly. ”It never holds what you need, eh?” She smiled at him and touched his shoulder. ”I’ll see you later, yeah?” She left to tend to one of the customers, also a regular, and Peter turned towards the bookcases.

He walked around the shop, his eyes travelling the spines, willing to see if a book could still choose him. He was briefly tempted to go to the children’s section to see if any of the books there spoke to him, but just as he was about to climb the narrow stairs a display caught his attention. It contained staff all-time favourites. It was, therefore, quite an eclectic selection organised by name of the reviewer. He knew all of Claire’s, of course, so he just smiled at the familiar covers and titles before moving on. He knew most of the staff, but he hadn’t met Mohinder yet; he had joined the staff only recently because James had retired.

Peter fumbled for his glasses and put them on. Mohinder’s stack of ten all-time faves contained mostly history books, all of which were classics and part of his own shelf of unread books. There was one title among them, however, that made him stop. He touched the spine as he read the title: _A Journal of Impossible Things_ by Verity Newman.

Peter frowned. The title, as well as the author’s name, rang a bell but he couldn’t quite make the connection. His mind was a bit sluggish. It had been a long day, and he’d had the beer on an almost empty stomach, which was never a good combination.

”Can I help you, sir?” a male voice asked him. It had a posh, if charming accent. When Peter looked at the man, he saw that it must be Mohinder. He read his name tag before he took off his glasses.

Mohinder frowned briefly, then his eyes went wide. ”Oh.”

Peter blinked. ”Is there something wrong?” Did he have a black spot on his nose?

”No, I’m sorry, sir,” Mohinder said, shaking off whatever had had surprised him.

Peter could tell that whatever had startled the otherwise friendly clerk hadn’t really passed, but he decided to drop it. He didn’t need to be a detective around the clock. It could be very tiring. He pointed at Verity Newman’s book. ”I’ve been wondering about this one. It seems familiar.”

”It came out two years ago. The author wrote up the love story of her great-grandmother and a stranded alien,” Mohinder said. 

”So it is a novel,” Peter said.

Mohinder looked at him sagaciously, which confused Peter. What was it with this man?

”You’ll have to read it to find out. And I’m not saying that because I want you to buy this book,” Mohinder said.

Peter was about to make a sarcastic reply when his instinct kicked in and he realised that the Asian man meant it. ”All right. Why not?” he said.

”It’s over there,” Mohinder said, starting towards the shelf. ”The hardcover edition is part of our three-for-two programme.”

Peter smirked. He was a salesman after all. ”Aye, why not.” He followed Mohinder and took the book when he picked it off the shelf. Peter wasn’t quite in the mood to browse any more. He quickly perused the blurb on the inside flaps. As always the blurb on the back cover was very cryptic — he hated that. The front cover showed a leather-bound journal and an open fob watch set against an intricate circular pattern that looked a bit like a blueprint of the inner workings of the fob watch.

What did the fob watch have to do with a journal?

His interest piqued, Peter went to the check-out to pay for the book. On his way out he waved at Claire who returned the gesture but was too busy to come and say goodbye to him.

Peter went home after he had picked up some food at the corner shop. He was suddenly ravenous, and he was thinking about throwing together a meal of pasta with pesto sauce. It was fast and one of his favourite comfort foods.


	3. Three

Like a child, you whisper softly to me  
You're in control, just like a child, now I'm dancing  
[…]  
Just like a prayer, your voice can take me there  
Just like a muse to me, you are a mystery  
Just like a dream, you are not what you seem  
Just like a prayer, no choice your voice can take me there  
— Madonna, _Like a Prayer_

Rose sat heavily on the edge of her favourite armchair once she was by herself again. For a few moments panic bubbled up inside her. If the police thought the plans of some fans involving her were worth investigating, and even sent one of their officers from Protection Command, things must be really serious. When Irene had called her a few days earlier to let her know about her concerns Rose had taken her advice to heart, but little had she known how bad things really were. For now, a plain-clothes officer would be staffing the concierge’s desk on the ground floor of her building.

The officer had reassured her that the investigation was proceeding well and that, assuming that everything went according to plan, they’d be able to arrest these people before anything could happen. ”I’m afraid DCI Carlisle couldn’t make it,” the officer, whose name she had forgotten, had said, showing her his badge. ”He’s in charge of your case.”

”My case,” Rose had echoed numbly. She wondered briefly whether to tell him that Sherlock Holmes was on the _case_ as well, but refrained. She knew that, despite everything, the consulting detective wasn’t exactly popular with the police.

She had travelled time and space and had faced incredible horrors, and she had felt alive then. Now she only felt numb. Why would anyone want to hurt her, fans on top of that? She had heard stories like this before, of course, but it was simply inconceivable that people were capable of doing something like this out of hero worship. She was glad the officer hadn’t mentioned what it was the group had planned. He had also advised her not to get in touch with the admins of her official fan site.

Her first thought was to ask PB for help. He was with the police. Of course she had no idea what kind of policeman he was. For all she knew he was a simple uniformed officer; she doubted it, however. He was far too clever to still be a plod. It was more likely he was a detective of some kind. She briefly toyed with the idea of breaking The Rule and asking PB what exactly it was he did, because she really needed the reassurance. She was afraid, however, of damaging their friendship and so she decided to call Irene instead.

Rose picked up her phone from the coffee table and settled back in her armchair. She brought up the list of incoming calls and dialled her number. 

The call connected and was answered by a male voice.

”Hello?”

”Um, hello. Can I speak to Irene, please?” Rose asked, surprised. Then she understood. This must be Sherlock Holmes she was talking to.

”I’m afraid she’s not available. Good day.”

”No! Wait, Mr Holmes! She called me from this number a few days ago. This is Rose Tyler,” she said.

”Oh. Well, everything’s under control, there’s nothing you have to worry about. Please don’t call this number again,” Holmes said and disconnected the call.

Rose stared at her phone. _What a git_ , she thought, redialling. To her surprise, he answered at once. ”I’ve just had an officer from Protection Command over. He told me a CID squad are working on _my case_ ,” Rose said without preamble.

”Ah, yes. The police have been aware of the Pirates for a while, but believe me, I’m making much faster progress,” Holmes said. ”There really is nothing for you to worry about.”

Rose snorted. ”Have you been listening?”

”I have, Miss Tyler. I just didn’t think it worthy of a reply. Please don’t call me again. I have more important things to tend to. Like the Pirates,” he said, and hung up again.

”Git,” Rose muttered, putting her phone down. How Irene could be friends with him was beyond her.

Her phone rang, startling her. She checked the caller ID. It was Holmes. With a curious little noise she picked up. ”Hello?”

”How did you know it was me on the phone?” Holmes asked.

”Irene told me it’s your phone.”

”You know she’s alive,” he said.

”Yes.”

”You’re not supposed to know. Have you told anyone?”

”No.”

”Good, keep it that way. One careless word and her cover is blown, and someone’s going to be careless sooner or later,” he said.

”Well, thank you for your trust in me,” Rose guffawed.

”Oh, of course. _You_ of all people are the notable exception that can keep a secret, aren’t you? But let me tell you something, Miss Tyler: You are not.”

Rose was tempted for a moment to tell him that she could, because she’d managed to keep a much bigger secret for much longer; and she was more of a public figure than he was. But she bit her lip. Arguing with him wouldn’t lead anywhere. ”What are you going to do? Give me a little pill that makes me forget?” she asked.

”No,” Holmes drawled. ”I’ll hold you responsible if something happens to Irene.”

”It’s good to know that my case is in such unbiased hands then,” she retorted.

Holmes guffawed. Then he hung up.

”Git.”

Rose called Mum and Mickey next to update them. She had asked their advice when Irene had first told her about the Pirates. Mickey was furious but her Mum was surprisingly calm. ”Trust the Met to do their job,” Jackie said. ”And you’ve got Sherlock Holmes on it as well. What could possibly go wrong?”

”Yeah,” Rose said. Everything could go wrong. Travelling with the Doctor had taught her that. They were dealing with irrational people — they acted irrationally. 

”Now, are you all set for the grand opening on Friday?” Mum asked. Vitex was one of the main sponsors of an exhibition of new talent at the Tate Modern, and the third annual show was to open in two days in the Turbine Hall.

”Yeah, I suppose I am,” Rose said. A plain-clothes officer would be accompanying her. She wasn’t sure that made her actually feel safer. Mickey’s presence, on the other hand, would work wonders. She wondered briefly if Holmes and Watson would make an appearance too. And PB, although she wasn’t going to recognise him if he did. PB was based in London — he had said that when he told her he was with the Met. And he’d mentioned an interest in art.

”Good. The car will pick you up around six-ish, all right?”

”Yeah, fine.”

Rose hung up. She felt better, but she still needed to talk to PB. She might not be able to tell him about her case but he’d be able to take her mind off things at least. Besides, she didn’t want him to worry about her or to get in trouble on her behalf. ”Now, what makes you think he’d do that for you, hmm?” she muttered to herself as she went to the small bureau where she usually sat when she wrote to him. It was in front of the window in her lounge, overlooking the Thames. The view was gorgeous, and since the window looked out on a rooftop garden it also offered her privacy. No one was able to see into any of her rooms from below, not even from the other side of the river.

_Dear lupamala,_

_Reading My Sister Lives on the Mantelpiece has left my mind reeling for a while. Also, it will be hard to find a book to read next. What could possibly live up to it? Maybe it’s time to take a break from reading._

_Not that I could do that. But. My shelf of unread books doesn’t hold anything even remotely as good. At least it seems so, otherwise I wouldn’t have bought any of the books on it. I think I’ll just pay my favourite bookshop a visit on my home and see what C can recommend. You know I trust her completely. Or have you discovered something?_

_No — don’t answer that. It’s my turn now. I am going to find the next book we’ll read. I feel I owe you. But how can I possibly live up to the task?_

_I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while: What made you choose your screen name? You don’t come across as a bad wolf at all. My choice is obvious — it was surprising enough to find the name unclaimed. One should think there’s more than one boy in Paisley._

_I apologise for the brevity of this email. I’m typing it up as I’m having my afternoon coffee. I’d need it fed through an IV, ideally, if there were such a thing as a caffeine drip. It’s been a long night and day. The case I’m working is… interesting. Anyway. The Rule :), mustn’t forget The Rule._

_I’m going to the grand opening at the Tate Modern on Friday. They have an exhibit of new talent. I’m not sure what to expect; modern art can be tricky._

_Well, I’ve got to dash. I promise the next email will be longer, and hopefully come bearing a new book to share._

_Take care_

_PB_

Rose’s heart was hammering in her chest. PB _was_ going to be at the Tate. She wouldn’t recognise him, and for a moment she was tempted to write back and tell him that she was going to be there too and if he’d like to meet up? But then she caught herself. If they met she was afraid of losing the wonderful conversations they had. His voice and personality would be hampered with a face, and she wasn’t sure she wanted that. Their conversations would never be the same again.

Should she go to the opening, knowing that he would be there? She’d be looking for him all the time, trying to find out, just by looking at the male visitors, if they might be PB. She wished he hadn’t told her he was going.

_Dear PB,_

_I’m sure you’ll find a good book for us to read in time. Don’t rush it; it will come to you when it does._

_The exhibit sounds interesting. You must tell me what you think. I’m not sure when I’m going to see it_

There, that would spare him at least wondering if she was there

_but I’d love to hear your verdict._

She hadn’t told anyone the story of Bad Wolf. Mum and Mickey knew it, of course, but PB would be the first one outside her family to hear it. What was she to tell him so she didn’t give anything about travelling with the Doctor away? She hadn’t thought of the Doctor in a few days, which was a new record, and possibly a sign that she was going to heal. But she knew that she’d always remember him and miss him.

_You either know your Latin or you’ve put your search fu to good use. I can be quite the she-wolf — my job makes it necessary from time to time, but actually I chose the name before I started my business. I don’t remember why; it just feels like something that describes me well. I prefer to think of myself as the Capitoline Wolf (the she-wolf who nurtured Romulus and Remus, the mythical founders of Rome) rather than the destructive force behind the Bad Wolf in Grimm’s fairy tales._

She stopped there. She hadn’t thought about Bad Wolf in a while. Of course, she had been Bad Wolf, a being created by her determination to save the Doctor’s life and looking into the heart of the TARDIS. What had happened between then and the moment the Doctor had taken her back to the Powell Estate was a mystery. He had been very upset at the time, and he’d seemed in pain, but he hadn’t offered any further explanation apart from the few terse words. He had reminded her of the words in the emergency protocol. ”Have a great life.” 

For a while Rose did not know if he was punishing or protecting her, but she knew the Doctor well enough to be sure that he hadn’t made the decision lightly.

Surely, it couldn’t be a punishment. He had always told her how everyone deserved a second chance — what could she possibly have done to exempt her from that? And hadn’t she managed to save him and return his ship to him? He had left her behind for her own protection, of that she was sure. But why had he taken her memory of the events that led up to his decision?

She had waited for him to come back for her for years, until one day she’d woken and realised that it would never happen. He was a Time Lord. He was clearly taking care not to come into contact with her.

-:-

Although Sherlock was behind most of the conversations with the Pirates, it was John who went to the meeting on the eve of the Big Day. Together, they had managed to win the group’s trust, but John thought that offering The Dunes, the Holmes’s remote house at the seaside, was what had done the trick. The leader of the group, silver_tongue, had accepted consulting_pirate’s offer at once, dismissing the idea of renting a cottage. That would make them traceable, but the house at the seaside was perfect because no one would suspect anything untoward going on there.

Silver_tongue had asked consulting_pirate to meet him so they could discuss things. John was filled with nervous anticipation. He had activated the recording function on his phone so they’d have proof to present to Lestrade. It was, basically, a straightforward plan they had. John would meet silver_tongue, they’d find out about the Pirates’ plan and pass the intel on to Lestrade. Rose Tyler needn’t even know what the Pirates had planned for her. It was better that way. It was disgusting despite its innocence, but John was sure that, given the lurid fantasies the Pirates exchanged in their online conversations.

The meeting took place at a busy eatery on the South Bank. No one would pay them any attention in the lively establishment. No one, of course, except Sherlock, who’d observe everything. Just how he planned to do that he didn’t tell John. ”You’ll be looking for me all the time if I told you. Just don’t.”

”Wouldn’t it be easier if I knew where to look?” John had objected.

”No. You’d only stare.”

”Right. A little trust wouldn’t be asking too much, would it,” John had mumbled.

Sherlock’s phone chose that moment to ring. He answered it crisply, putting it on speakerphone.

”Sherlock. So it’s true what they say,” Lestrade said. ”You’ve always wanted to be a pirate, and now you have become one.” John frowned.

”Yes.”

”Not very creative, your screen name,” Lestrade commented. ”Consulting_pirate!?”

”Your point, Lestrade,” Sherlock said with an air of decreasing patience.

”My point is that we’ve got the case covered.”

”Meaning?”

”Meaning we’ve got one of our own in the group. So kindly bugger off,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock straightened, blinking. ”Who’s on it?” he asked suspiciously. ”Not you?”

”No, but it’s someone very capable,” Lestrade said.

”Do I know him?”

”Does it matter?”

”It’s still my house we’re talking about,” Sherlock informed him suavely.

”That’s why I’m calling. May we use it? See, the pirate captain —”

”The pirate captain?” Sherlock sneered.

”Ben Travis, if you prefer,” Lestrade interjected, ”Anyway. The pirate captain has allowed consulting_pirate in, but not our man. The important thing is that we can prevent things from happening. Let us put Travis behind bars.”

”Is this so the Met look better?” Sherlock sneered.

”No. It’s the commissioner getting a little testy with me involving you in so many cases,” Lestrade explained.

”It’s not my fault if his people are rubbish, is it?” Sherlock said.

”Sherlock,” John growled. He had been listening long enough. ”Of course we’ll leave it to your man. As far as we are concerned, the case is solved. We cannot possibly find out who is hiding behind the screen names. Legally,” he felt compelled to add. 

”Thank you, John,” Lestrade said with an audible sigh of relief.

”Your man outranks you, doesn’t he?” Sherlock asked.

”How could you possibly know that?” Lestrade asked in awed exasperation.

”All right then,” Sherlock agreed. ”But I want to meet _your man_. He’ll need keys, directions and I’ll have to show him around. It’d be a bit embarrassing if he didn’t know his way round his own house, don’t you think?”

”It would if they were going to use your house. But Carlisle wants to arrest the men before they can get away with Miss Tyler,” Lestrade explained.

”Of course,” Sherlock said. ”What if they get away anyway?”

”Do give him some credit, Sherlock,” Lestrade said. ”Carlisle knows what he’s doing.”

”Really.”

”Sherlock!” John admonished.

”Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. So, when shall we three meet… again?” Sherlock asked, changing the tone of his voice to somewhat less insufferable.

”After our man meets the pirate captain,” Lestrade suggested. ”There isn’t really enough time.”

Sherlock nodded. ”I will join the meeting.”

There was silence. John stared at Sherlock. While the conversation had been predictable so far, this really surprised him. ”What?” John asked.

”I’ll be a patron. I need to see Travis,” Sherlock said.

”Have you turned profiler now?” Lestrade mocked him. His anger, however, bubbled close to the surface.

”No, but it would be good to know as much about Travis as possible, don’t you think? I mean the way he behaves in real life,” Sherlock explained.

Lestrade sighed, obviously seeing the wisdom in Sherlock’s voice. ”But you have to keep absolutely quiet. No showing off. At all. Save that for after Travis has left.”

”Yes, Mummy,” Sherlock said.

”See you later then,” Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock disconnected the call.

”That went well,” John couldn’t help saying.


	4. Four

Well, I've never prayed but tonight I'm on my knees, yeah  
I need to hear some sounds that recognise the pain in me, yeah  
I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now  
But the airwaves are clean and there's nobody singing to me now  
— The Verve, _Bittersweet Symphony_

Peter recognised Holmes at once. He managed to suppress a grumpy expression. Lestrade had told him that there had been no way to persuade the consulting detective to stay away from the eatery. Peter just hoped that Holmes would behave. The stories he had heard from Lestrade and others had prepared him to expect anything from the man, but Peter didn’t think that Holmes would actually interfere with a police operation. Not any more than he already had, of course. Much as he hated the idea that consulting_pirate had become a member of the Pirates so quickly whereas the persona he had created had gone ignored, he was glad that they could protect Rose Tyler and arrest the Pirates.

Ben Travis arrived shortly after Holmes and sat across from him at the table, after having scanned the room looking for the rose he’d made Peter bring with him. Holmes had taken a seat across the aisle, facing Travis. Peter had to admit that Holmes knew what he was doing.

”Hello,” Peter said.

”Hello, consulting_pirate,” Travis said, grinning. He was an athletic, average looking bloke whom Peter had down as a banker. While Peter hadn’t been sure what to expect — and tried not to form an image of Travis to stay open-minded — he certainly hadn’t expected a city boy.

”Simon,” Peter said. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, which he ordinarily only wore on his days off and would serve to make him unrecognisable if he were to happen to run into a colleague.

”What’s good today?” Travis asked.

”I haven’t had a chance to look yet. I only just arrived myself,” Peter said. He tried to sound as much like a Londoner as possible. He had a knack for accents and languages, and Lisa had reassured him that he’d be able to pass himself off as a Londoner without difficulty.

They made some small talk to get to know each other. Peter had read all the conversations and emails Watson and Holmes had exchanged with Travis to familiarise himself with _Simon_ , and he had asked his creators all sorts of questions that had popped up. He had spent the major part of the previous day preparing for this meeting.

”So, Simon,” Travis said after the waiter had brought their food, ”tell me about the house.”

”Well, as I said, it’s very remote but offers any amenity Rose could possibly want,” Peter said. ”I’ll go up ahead of you to prepare it for her arrival myself. I’d usually have one of the neighbours over, Mrs Hills, but it’s not what we want this time.”

”Have you told her you’ll be there at all?”

”No. Actually, we’ll be quite safe from surprise visits because she’s on holiday right now,” Peter said.

”Perfect. Give Rose the nicest room. Have you got all the items from the list?” Travis asked.

”Yeah. Including the… ah… condoms,” he said. His stomach revolted slightly at that idea. His worst suspicions had, of course, proven true. This wouldn’t only be about treating Rose Tyler to some time off, it was also about shagging her. It was an open secret that she wasn’t dating anyone, so Travis and the others had decided to make her fall in love with one of them.

”Actually, Simon,” Travis said, ”Tony and Ed have had to drop out. Some real life crap came up that will prevent them from joining us. Or so they say.”

Peter’s insides froze. Travis was very serious about this after all. ”Are you sure you want me to go ahead of you? I could stay. I’ve got everything we need and Rose will be in my room, which I've prepared for her because I was up there just last weekend.”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Holmes frown briefly. But Peter had to follow this wherever Travis lead him. Flexibility was paramount.

”That would be great. SatNavs and your directions are all well and good but there’s nothing like someone who actually knows their way around. Particularly if the place is a little remote,” Travis said, smiling.

Travis was a sensible, intelligent man. Why he’d want to kidnap Rose Tyler, why he couldn’t understand that she’d never have any reason or desire to know him, was beyond him. That was what made Travis so dangerous. Peter didn’t trust him one bit. He could, of course, nick him right now, but it’d better to arrest him _in flagrante delicto_. That sexual assault was part of the plan was far beyond what Peter had expected. 

”All right,” Peter said, sipping his ginger lemonade.

”This is how we’ll do it,” Travis said.

Across the aisle, Holmes signalled the waiter.

-:-

Peter sat staring at the photos in _A Journal of Impossible Things_. If he hadn’t known better he’d say that the tall man outside the building was a version of himself in a robe and mortarboard. A version of him that was his actual age, rather than the lanky, floppy-haired young man he had been after he had gotten his degree. But the caption read ”Professor John Smith outside Farringham School for Boys”. He turned the page and found a sepia photo of a pretty woman in a nurse’s uniform — ”Matron Joan Redfern of Farringham School for Boys”. There were, however, no photos that showed them as a couple. Peter frowned.

He thumbed quickly through the rest of the book in search of more photos, but there were none. There were just these two, back to back at the very beginning of the book. He went back to the picture of John Smith, wondering if he might be seeing a ghost. It had been a long week, and all he wanted was some rest before the Big Day.

He would have liked to ask someone if there was a likeness or if he was just seeing things, but it was close to midnight, and every single person on his team deserved their rest.

Peter took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. Maybe he should go to bed as well. He knew, however, that he’d be unable to go to sleep. He had too many things on his mind.

Reading, however, was out of the question. He had started the first paragraph a few times but not taken in a single word of it. With a sigh of exasperation he put down the book.

Lupamala had been strangely quiet, and that worried him. Had he said something wrong? She hadn’t seemed to mind his question about her screen name. In fact, she had answered him in detail. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that she didn’t strike him as a wolf, at least not the lupamala he’d come to know through her emails. In fact, she seemed a very kind, warm person, more a delicate flower than a canine predator. Peter went to his small office and turned on his computer to check if she had sent him an email. He’d write and apologise if she hadn’t replied.

_Dear PB,_

_I am not a delicate flower. I may be called like a flower in RL (now_ you _can occupy yourself trying to figure out what it might be),_

Peter thought Rose immediately, but that was of course because of his case.

_but I am not delicate at all. Wolf is actually quite accurate; I fight like a she-wolf for my loved ones, or for people who deserve it. I nearly died for the man I loved. I’m sure that if we met you’d come up with a nickname of your own for me, and I’m equally sure that it wouldn’t be anything cute._

_Now I’ve probably wrecked the image of me you had. It’d be quite interesting to know what kind of a person you think I am. I’m not fishing for compliments. It’s just that… well, something must have given you the idea that I'm like some kind of delicate flower. Maybe I show you this side of myself because there’s no one else to see it. I don’t know._

_Please don’t ask me what I think of you. I like you, PB, a lot. I really enjoy our conversations because they’re witty and warm and clever. Let’s not destroy what we have by telling each other who we think we really are. It’s a matter of perception, and nothing is more deceptive than that. You should know that, Philosopher Boy ;)._

Peter laughed. Lupamala was right, of course, but that didn’t change the fact that he had reached a point in their friendship at which he was really curious about who she really was. She was right, however. It would only destroy what they had and he didn’t want to lose her. She was one of they few people he had outside the force, and it was great to have conversations with someone he didn’t need to hide from. It was ironic, of course, given the fact that they didn’t know each other’s real names or where they lived, but he felt he could be himself with her. The Philosophy Boy he really was. He had studied philosophy at uni — in his conversations with her he was the lanky, floppy-haired young lad again.

_I’ll pick up a copy of_ A Journal of Impossible Things _later today. I love stories like that, and the only explanation for why I haven’t read it yet — or stumbled across it — is that I was abroad when it was published. I’ll start reading it tonight; I’m looking forward to some quiet time. When I’m through with it I’ll tell you if I think the story is true. Not that it matters much if it’s a story well-told._

”Aye, but falling in love with a brain-washed alien? Come on, Rose!” Peter cried. 

Then he realised what he had called her.

”What are you doing?” he muttered. He couldn't get Rose Tyler out of his mind. Lupamala might as well be called Petunia (he shuddered at that idea), Lily, Iris, Heather, Flora or Fleur (why did Harry Potter names keep cropping up?), Bryony, Jasmine (like in _My Sister_ ) or Daisy. ”Quite a lot possibilities after all, Bad Wolf, eh?”

And then it struck him.

_Peter and the Wolf._

It was the first classical piece of music his father had introduced him to. Not that it amounted to much — Peter had never learned to play an instrument, but he had learned to appreciate music.

Lupamala had given him a hint as to her own real name. Should he return the gesture? But how, without giving it away, without even making her guess a little?

_The most important thing is that, for as long as we are immersed in the story, we believe that John Smith is an alien in hiding. That is what writers do, isn’t it? We, the readers, have to be ready to suspend disbelief for a while and entrust ourselves to the writer’s world and allow her to make us believe. I think that’s an amazing feat of magic and a very trusting thing to do. After all, we give a part of ourselves and of our time up for it._

_I picture you frowning, my dear philosopher. You said yourself you cried when you read_ My Sister _— you gave away part of yourself because you allowed the characters’ fate to touch you on a very emotional level. I don’t know much about philosophy, but to me reading and allowing books and fictional characters to be part of my life is what makes me happy._

_A few years ago I would have scoffed at the idea. Let’s just say that I’ve met someone who transformed my life._

”The man you nearly died for?” Peter murmured. Or had he misread that? He went back in her email, but the sentence was really there.

_I nearly died for the man I loved._

”What happened, lupamala?” Peter wondered. If she used the past tense to refer to him he must not be around any more. Had he died despite her best efforts? Had they broken up? Maybe that was the reason why he had thought of her as delicate. 

Peter had to admit that delicate was a bad choice of words. Wistful might be a better word to describe some of her emails. Lupamala had suffered a terrible loss, of that he was sure. He would have liked to ask her about it, but he was afraid of spoiling everything. If he was patient, or the chance to ask her about it offered itself, Rose might explain to him one day.

That sentence was there, however. Now. 

Peter needed to ask her. Carefully. Asking people painful questions was his job, after all, and he wasn’t half bad at it either. He’d offer her an out.

-:-

Sherlock had stretched out on the sofa in his purple dressing gown, pressing his right hand to the inside of his left forearm. John sighed, wondering how many nicotine patches the Jolly Roger case warranted. Sherlock had returned from the meeting with Carlisle and Travis a few hours ago but hadn’t spoken to John since then.

John resisted the temptation to ask Sherlock what was bothering him. There was no point in invading his space when he was in his mind palace. Sherlock would start rattling off theories and observations soon enough. At least he wasn’t playing the violin. That was a good sign. 

John sat down in his armchair and picked up the newspaper. It was a bit late to be reading the day’s publication, but he had spotted a few lengthy articles that he had kept for now. 

He was halfway through the second article when the creaking leather of the sofa made him look up. Sherlock was finally rising, stalking to his own armchair with the grace of a panther to pick up his violin from where he had deposited it the last time.

”Oh dear,” John muttered.

”Shut up, John,” Sherlock muttered rudely.

”Right,” John said, folding up his paper. He stood. ”I’ll see you later.” He picked up his laptop as well and retired to his room. Sherlock began to play Irene’s Theme, the piece he had composed when he had thought she was dead. John had no idea what Sherlock called the piece — but he needed a label for it. It was beautiful but sad, and he wasn’t quite sure it really suited Irene Adler; or at least it didn’t suit the side of Irene Adler he had seen. Had Sherlock fallen in love with Irene Adler after all? In a weird, Sherlock-kind of way?

”Poor Sherlock,” John muttered, settling in the armchair in his room. He unfolded his paper and began to read. Sherlock played Irene’s Theme over and over again. It lulled John to sleep. It had been a long day.

John woke with a start to a silent flat. Blinking groggily into the light of his reading lamp, he checked the time on his watch. It was gone three in the morning. He got up in search of a glass of water. He had forgotten to bring one when he’d fled the living room earlier.

The flat was dark. He went to the kitchen to get what he had come for, then he returned to his room. Just as he closed the door, his mobile alerted him to a message from Sherlock. Frowning, he found his phone and checked the message. _Gone to have dinner. Will be back tomorrow afternoon. Keep an eye out for Lestrade and his DCI. — S_

-:-

”Are you hungry?” Irene asked when she opened the door for Sherlock. Although she had known he was on his way to The Dunes to pick her up, she hadn’t dressed. She was wearing one of his satin robes. It was too big for her, but she wouldn’t touch the much warmer cotton robes from the laundry closets.

Sherlock was pale with exhaustion. He just stared at her.

She took him by his arm. ”Come in,” she said gently, dropping the playful tone. To her surprise, Sherlock obeyed without comment. She stepped behind him and guided him up the stairs to her room; it was the only room that was still made up. Sherlock was ready to drop; he wouldn’t mind sleeping in her bed.

”I’ll get you something to drink. You get ready for bed,” Irene said when he stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. She had never seen him like this, and it upset her a little.

”Sherlock?” she asked, getting his attention when she touched him again.

He looked at her. Finally, he looked at her, really looked at her. ”It’s not safe any more,” he said, his voice gravelly, his speech slurred.

”We can’t leave now. You can’t even think straight,” Irene said, pulling his coat off his frame.

”I don’t…”

”Hush, you. Get ye to bed,” she ordered mildly. Oddly enough, her tone seemed to work. Sherlock began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. She wondered how long it had been since he’d put it on.

She hurried to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. When she returned he was just crawling into bed. Fully naked, totally at ease with his body, even in her presence. Of course. He hadn’t batted an eye when they’d first met, even though he _had_ looked. Adjusting her robe, she half knelt, half sat on the edge of the mattress to pass him the glass.

He drowned it in one thirsty gulp. Irene smiled. He was human after all.

”We’ll have to leave soon,” he said.

”Yes, but you’d better get some rest before we do,” she said, accepting the glass and putting it down on the bedside table.

”You’re wearing my gown,” he observed.

She shrugged it off.

The ghost of a smile flitted over his tired face. He held out his hand for her and she crept beneath the covers beside him. He was asleep before she had a chance to extinguish the light.


	5. Five

There was a boy  
A very strange enchanted boy  
They say he wandered very far  
Very far, over land and sea  
A little shy, and sad of eye  
But very wise was he

And then one day  
One magic day he passed my way  
— David Bowie, _Nature Boy_

Rose stared at the book cover. She hadn’t really looked at it at the shop because she’d been in a rush and so happy to find a copy that she’d just snatched it off the shelf. True to his word, PB had come up with a suggestion for their second joint reading. Rose had just scribbled the title and author’s name down so she’d be able to pick a copy up on her way home.

Now she sat, stunned, on one of the stools at her breakfast bar, the book in front of her. The design on the cover was all too familiar. At first she’d thought it was a trick of the eye, or that she was imagining things; that her mind suggested the artwork was Gallifreyan because it looked a bit like the writing she’d seen on the TARDIS. But upon further, and closer, inspection she had found that the script was indeed Gallifreyan.

How was that possible?

There were so many explanations that Rose didn’t dare choose one for fear of getting too attached to it and allowing herself to be overwhelmed by it. 

Rose picked up the book to read the blurb.

  
_Pieced together from diaries and a dream journal, this compelling tale, half fiction, half memoir, brings an extraordinary woman’s story back to life._   


  
_Joan Redfern is the matron at Farringham School for Boys. On the eve of the Great War, she finds love again when the new History teacher, Professor John Smith, takes up residence at the posh boarding school. He tells her about the man he becomes in his dreams, a man with two hearts who travels through time and space in a blue box._   


  
_As they get to know each other Joan finds herself increasingly intrigued by John’s tales. But then the two of them make a horrible discovery that questions their relationship._   


  
_Verity Newman has carefully put the pieces of their lives back together again and written a story that will capture your imagination._   


Rose put the book down. Was this a true story or had Verity Newman just made it all up? It was impossible. No one so far had dreamed up — she looked at the blurb again — _”a man with two hearts who travels through time and space in a blue box.”_ This was no coincidence. This was a book about the Doctor, how he had touched the life of a woman and changed it. Whether Verity Newman really told her great-grandmother’s story or her own was something Rose needed to find out. Once she had read the book.

Why hadn’t her alarm bells gone off as soon as PB had told her that it was a book about a human woman falling in love with an alien? The answer was simple. It wasn’t exactly an original idea. Many such stories, she supposed, had been published. There was nothing that made Newman’s novel stand out. Anyone could claim they pieced the story together from someone’s diary.

She thumbed to the glossy paper at the beginning of the book. It had a photograph of John Smith outside the school, and a studio portrait of Joan Redfern. While the similarity between Joan and Verity was striking — either because they really were family or a clever designer had photoshopped Verity’s picture — John Smith didn’t look like the Doctor at all.

”It’s not him,” Rose concluded. She stared at the grainy photo. ”At least it’s not him in the picture.” It was likely the publishers had decided to add a random stock photo to complement Joan’s picture, or that Verity wanted to protect Joan and John’s privacy after all.

Her iPad chirped, the alarm reminding her that it was time for her to get ready for the grand opening. Shaking her head, Rose got up, went to her bedroom to undress and from there to the en suite to take a shower.

”How come there are Gallifreyan characters on the cover, though?” Rose muttered as she tilted her head backwards under the hot spray of the shower. She spluttered a little. Could that be coincidence as well?

Rose scrubbed her scalp vigorously to get rid of the idea that was beginning to form in her mind. There were more important things to deal with. She should be terrified by the prospect of meeting a faceless fanatic who wanted to kidnap her, but instead she was filled with the same kind of anticipation that she had experienced when she had travelled with the Doctor and faced all kinds of foes.

”What is wrong with you?” she said to herself as she wrung the water from her darkened hair. She wrapped a towel around herself and wiped down the glass walls of the shower stall. The answer was easy. Excitement was missing from her life. It wasn’t exactly boring because of the company and her charity work, both of which she enjoyed, but it was a bit domestic for someone who had travelled time and space in a blue box.

And there it was again, that idea that John Smith was the Doctor.

”But it’s not him in the photo!” Rose cried in frustration. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked furious. Like a wolf. ”I am no delicate flower, PB.”

Rose finished in the bathroom and chose a pair of linen trousers and a long-sleeved but light-weight blouse for the event at the Tate Modern. It was warm out, but the Turbine Hall was cool and she didn’t want to be cold. She briefly debated over the kind of shoes to wear. Tonight she needed something stylish but something in which she could run if necessary. 

Her intercom buzzed.

”Miss Tyler? Your car’s here,” Jackson, the plain-clothes policeman manning the concierge’s desk, said. He had been detailed from Protection Command. Rose was more than a little embarrassed by it. A normal uniformed policeman would have done the job, but instead they had sent in the experts. She wasn’t that important.

”Thank you. I’ll be down in a minute,” she said, slipping into a pair of low-heeled sandals. She picked up her bag and took the lift down.

”Rob Carter,” the policeman introduced himself. He looked good in a dashing kind-of-way but he wasn’t Rose’s type — he knew that he was smart, and she’d never liked that. The story was that he was with the gallery to show Rose and her Mum around the new exhibit and to introduce them to the artists. The fact that she had already met most of them was beside the point. What was important was that the press bought it, and buy it they would. Not that it mattered much once Travis was, hopefully, arrested. 

”Shall we?” he asked.

”Sure.”

Mum was already waiting in the car, and after he had helped Rose into the backseat he slipped into the front passenger seat. The ride didn’t take long, but the atmosphere in the car was tense. Even Jackie was unusually quiet.

”Have you read _A Journal of Impossible Things_?” Rose asked suddenly, tearing her gaze away from the cityscape moving past them almost silently as the chauffeur took them to the Southbank.

”No, why would I?” Jackie asked. She’d never been much of a reader.

”A friend recommended it to me,” Rose said.

”A friend?” Now Mum perked up.

”From a reading group on the Internet,” Rose said. There was no need to tell Mum how exclusive the reading group was. 

”Oh. Is he nice?”

Rose bit her lip. ”Yeah, I suppose so. But you know what it’s like with folks on the Internet,” she said. She saw Carter gazing at her intently in the rearview mirror. ”It’s harmless. We discuss books. We don’t know each other. We don’t even know each other’s names.”

”Not everyone on the Internet is a pervert,” Carter commented. ”It’s how I met the missus.”

”How long have you been together?” Mum asked.

”Almost eight years, five of them married. Tomorrow’s our anniversary,” he said, beaming.

”Good for you, sergeant,” Mum said.

Rose returned to staring out of the tinted window for the remainder of the journey. Meeting someone had proved hard, but Rose suspected that she hadn’t really let go of the Doctor yet. When she’d mentioned him in her email to PB, she had done so with a mixture of heartache and fondness. Maybe she was beginning to get over him. Six years was a long time.

They were received outside the Tate by the flashbulbs of the press and their frenzied cries for attention. Rose and Jackie nodded at each other before they left the car, slipping on the masks they had cultivated for their public appearances. Carter was close by, but he didn’t offer Rose his arm. It was good to know that he was there.

Jackie and Rose posed for the press, answered a few questions and signed some autographs for fans who had turned up. All of them looked excited and happy to see her — none of them looked like a pervert. But if perverts were easily recognisable they’d not be a threat. Rose tried — and succeeded — to meet their eyes and be gracious to each of them. Some were tongue-tied, some treated her like an old friend, but they all were respectful and left her in peace when she drifted towards the entrance. The grand opening was invitation only.

Which meant that her perv had needed to come by one, and that unsettled Rose. However, she breathed a sigh of relief when they entered the tall Turbine Hall. Most of the guests had already arrived, but the murmur of their voices was hushed. A waiter approached them with a glass of elegantly bubbling champagne for Mum, and a glass of white wine for Rose. She’d nurse it for part of the reception. It gave her something to root herself to, to keep her fingers occupied. She still didn’t feel comfortable at such events, but at least she didn’t look it.

It was Mum’s turn this time to make the speech, and while she welcomed the guests and spoke about the trust and how important new talent was, Rose let her gaze travel over the faces of the crowd. Carter was stood right beside her, and she saw him make occasional eye contact with a tall, dark man. He wore a smart grey suit but no tie. That was probably Carlisle, the detective in charge of her case. He looked alert, and he, in turn, exchanged occasional glances with another smartly dressed man, slightly older than him and not as lean. Probably another policeman.

Rose relaxed slightly. Carlisle and the other policeman stood close by; Carter was at her elbow. Strangely enough, Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be seen. His sidekick, John Watson, was there, however. He looked shorter than she’d imagined, and if she didn’t know better she’d never had him down as the army type. His expression was open, interested, and kind.

Somewhere in that crowd was PB. 

She knew quite a few of the guests who had been invited, but the event was a big one so she had no chance of finding out — by exclusion — who PB was. She’d have to be content with the idea that he was somewhere out there.

She applauded politely when everyone else did, careful not to spill any of her wine. Then the difficult part of the evening began. She had to mill, and that, Jackson had explained, was the difficult part because it was hard to keep an eye on her. Which was the reason why they had come up with Carter's cover story.

”Shall we?” he asked, touching her elbow. Rose noticed that he wasn’t holding a drink, and she wondered if she should dispose of hers as well on a passing waiter’s tray.

”Yes, let’s,” she said, smiling. ”Should I… ?” She raised her glass.

”Aren’t you enjoying it?” he asked.

Rose nodded. Carter smiled.

He took her around the exhibit, and Rose saw, from the corner of her eye, that Carlisle, the other copper, and John Watson were always nearby. She even bumped into Carlisle by accident. His hands went to her arms from behind to steady her, and she managed not to spill any of her wine although she squeaked in shock. She had barely touched it. Her throat felt too tight even for liquid.

”I’m sorry, Miss Tyler,” he said, letting go of her. Rose felt herself captivated by his dark eyes and his smile as she turned around. But there was something else. ”Are you all right?” he asked, his question laced with the tiniest hint of a Scottish brogue.

”Yes, thank you,…”

_He looks familiar_ , she thought, but couldn’t tell where she might have seen him before. 

”Peter Carlisle,” he said. 

”Thank you, sir,” she said, smiling nervously.

With a brisk nod, he turned away to study the display behind him. Rose would have liked to talk to him briefly, but she reminded herself of why he was here. His smile hadn’t reached his eyes, and Rose was sure that it hadn’t was not because he was here on business. Carlisle seemed to be a sad man. What, she wondered, had happened to him?

-:-

The longer the reception lasted, the more nervous Rose became. Nothing indicated that she was in danger of being kidnapped. Carter, Carlisle, Watson and the other plain-clothes copper stayed close to her, milling about so that it never became obvious that they were tailing her, but they were never far away enough that she couldn’t see them. There came a point when she thought that maybe the fanatic had changed his plan, or just said these things in jest, never meaning her any real harm.

”If you’ll excuse me,” Rose said to Carter at one point. She had just checked her watch. It was close to the time they had planned for her to leave, and she wanted to pop to the loo for a few minutes to compose herself. Her stomach felt queasy, and she was hot. She gave Carter her wine glass. She hadn’t even drunk half of the wine. Its taste hadn’t left an impression, and she didn’t want to aggravate her nervous stomach.

”Of course,” he said, making eye contact with Carlisle.

As she went to the Ladies’ she heard foot steps behind her. In the reflection of the glass door separating the Turbine Hall from the stairwell she could see Carlisle and the other copper following her. _It’s a bit much, don’t you think?_ Rose thought.

She barely made it into one of the stalls before the urge to retch became overpowering. She bent over the toilet and brought up what little she’d had for lunch. Plucking some toilet paper from the dispenser, she wiped her mouth and flushed the evidence of her fear away.

”Are you all right?” Carlisle asked. Rose jumped and suppressed an embarrassing squeak. She hadn’t expected him to follow her into the Ladies’.

”Yeah. You shouldn’t be in here, you know,” she said, climbing to her feet. Rose felt a bit dizzy for a few moments. What had gotten into her? She’d faced the Daleks and been trapped by green monsters in 10, Downing Street, with Mickey’s finger on the red button. She’d never felt sick with fear — or _been_ sick with fear.

Carlisle had stepped into the doorway separating the array of stalls from the wash basins. He gestured for her to stay put, and he pressed his lips into a thin line to suggest she be quiet. Rose’s eyes went wide. So this was it. The other man in the Ladies’ must be her kidnapper. If she’d stayed out there she’d be safe.

”Give her a few minutes, Travis,” Carlisle said, turning away from her.

”We don’t have a few minutes. I’ve spotted uniforms out there,” he said.

Rose clamped her hand over her mouth. The other man was not another copper but the fanatic fan.

”We’ll never get out of here,” Carlisle reasoned.

”I’m prepared,” Travis replied, and Rose could hear a metallic swishing sound. Did he have a knife?

”Travis!” Carlisle said with calm authority.

”Come now, Miss Tyler,” Travis said sweetly, pushing Carlisle aside to get to her. She’d locked the door, but since she was the only one in there, it was obvious where she was hiding. When would Carlisle intervene? She knew that the clearer the situation about him kidnapping her was, the better.

Travis banged on the door, making her jump.

_Get a grip on yourself,_ Rose admonished herself.

”I’m coming out. Please don’t… hurt me,” Rose said.

There was a brief pause before Travis said, ”All right.” 

Travis didn’t move. Rose had counted on that, and on his carelessness. The stall doors opened outward, and they were fairly solid. Rose unlocked the door.

”No, Rose, don’t!” Carlisle cried, but it was too late. Rose threw herself against the door and staggered out of the stall. The door connected with Travis with a satisfying thump. Rose rebounded off the door at the impact because there was nothing for her to gain purchase on. Momentarily winded, she stumbled backwards and slumped onto the closed lid of the toilet. Travis had given a brief groan of pain, but she could hear his dead weight hit the floor. It was followed by the clatter of the knife. 

Carlisle opened the door. ”Rose, are you all right?”

There was a dull ache in her right shoulder and arm, but other than that, she felt all right. She nodded.

Outside, she could hear Travis groan.

”I’ve got him,” Carlisle said to no one in particular. He probably had a mike somewhere on his body. Rose had seen it often enough on the telly. She remained sitting, however, to catch her breath. There was another metallic sound. Handcuffs.

”Ben Travis, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the attempted kidnapping of Rose Tyler. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

All Travis had to say in his defence, however, was a pathetic little groan.

”Serves you right,” Rose mumbled.


	6. Six

In your message you said, you were goin' to bed, but I'm not done with the night.  
So I stayed up and read, but your words in my head, got me mixed up so I turned out the light.

And I, don't know how, to slow it down.  
My mind's racing from chasing pirates.

Well the man in there swings while the silliest things, floppin around in my brain.  
And I try not to dream but them possible schemes, swim around, wanna drown me in synch.  
— Norah Jones, _Chasing Pirates_

”Are you sure you want to be by yourself?” Mickey asked. He had given her a lift from Scotland Yard and taken her up to her flat. His concern for her was touching, but the truth was that Rose hadn’t felt as alive as she had the previous night in a long time. 

”Yeah. I’m just tired,” Rose said. It had been a late night, and she’d gotten up early to go back to the Met to make a formal statement. It turned out she’d broken Travis’s nose — but that was the least of his concerns now. 

”Give me a ring if you need anything. Or if you want to do anything tonight,” he offered.

”Thanks, but I don’t think so,” she said, waving the folded newspapers at him. The story of her foiled kidnapping had made it into the papers, of course. She’d have preferred it if the exhibition had been mentioned for different reasons, and had suggested to cancel her appearance, but it couldn’t be helped. Arresting Travis had been more important, according to Carlisle. 

”Okay, but call me if you need anything,” Mickey repeated, and, with a kiss to her cheek, he left.

Rose went straight to her bedroom, took off her clothes and crawled back into bed. An hour’s sleep would restore her spirits, and then she’d put the episode behind her and carry on with the plans she’d had for the weekend: nothing for Saturday, a long walk somewhere outside the city and a trip to the cinema afterwards. 

She put on some soft music and closed her eyes, curling around her duvet. She dozed for a while, images and thoughts replaying themselves in her head in an endless loop, images from the exhibition, Carlisle, the showdown in the Ladies’, and the Gallifreyan characters on the book cover. 

She knew that she had really fallen asleep was the fact that she knew the playlist by heart, and she knew that she hadn’t heard some of the songs when she woke. She lay with her eyes closed for a while using the songs she’d missed to gauge how long she’d been asleep, when the house phone rang.

Groggy, she got up and padded down the hall. Why didn’t she just stay in bed and tell the world to leave her be?

”Yes?” she said softly.

”Rose. Are you all right?” Adele, the Saturday daytime concierge asked. She was a student and managed to get a lot of reading done on her shifts. Sometimes they chatted about what she was reading, and, inspired by that, Rose had toyed with the idea of furthering her education on more than one occasion.

”Yeah, I’ve just taken a nap. I’m still a bit drowsy.”

”I’m sorry to interrupt. There’s a gentleman down here. A Peter Carlisle?” Adele informed her.

”The DCI?”

”He didn’t say he was police. One would think you’d be done with them for the day,” Adele said. ”Hang on.”

Rose ran her free hand over her face. The nap had refreshed her, but she had yet to wake properly.

”Rose? He says he’s just here to ask how you are. Off duty,” Adele added in a conspiratorial tone.

”Let me talk to him,” Rose said. There was some rustling as Adele passed the receiver on to Carlisle.

”Hello, Chief Inspector,” Rose said.

”Please. I’m off duty, call me Peter. I just came to see if you’re all right,” he said.

”I am, thank you,” Rose said, and, following sudden inspiration, ”If you give me half an hour I’ll be presentable. Maybe you could get us coffee?”

Carlisle was momentarily quiet, but then he said, ”I wouldn’t want to impose.”

”You won’t. I’d love some company,” Rose said. It was true. Although she’d thought, before her nap, that she’d like to be by herself she found she wanted to talk to someone. She’d wanted to reply to PB’s email in great detail, but that could wait. She still needed to process a few of the things that had happened, and Carlisle was the right person for that. He’d be able to tell her what she needed to know.

”Half an hour it is. Anything in particular I can get you?” he asked.

”There’s a small coffee shop round the corner. I’d love the biggest cappuccino they have,” she said, her heart thumping. She was inviting a man up to her flat. She hadn’t done that in… well, ever. She’d never felt comfortable enough with a man to allow him into her sanctuary.

”Will do,” he said.

Rose showered and made herself presentable. She threw open the doors to her rooftop garden to air the place a bit. She’d been unaware of how warm it was, and she opened the sunshade so they could sit under it and enjoy their coffee.

Adele sent Carlisle up to her flat, and Rose willed the butterflies in her stomach to settle down. He was just coming up for some coffee and to see for himself that she was all right. No big deal. Then why was she so nervous?

He had changed into jeans and a white shirt, the cuffs rolled up. He’d shaved, but he hadn’t slept; he looked in need of a nap. Or a serious dose of caffeine. He came bearing two large paper cups.

”Hello,” he said.

Rose stepped aside so he could enter.

”Nice place,” he commented.

”It’s one of the few luxuries I indulge in,” Rose said.

”Quite right too,” he said.

She led the way to the rooftop garden, where he deposited the cups on the table to enjoy the view. ”I see what you mean,” he said.

Rose laughed.

They sat in the shade and sipped their coffee. Rose had taken off the lid; the milk foam was, as always, frothy perfection.

”I had no idea if you wanted anything on top,” he said.

”It’s fine. Thank you,” she said.

”So, you’re really all right?” he asked.

”My arm and shoulder are a bit sore,” Rose said, ”but other than that, yes. I am.”

He sipped his black coffee. ”I mean in here,” he said, touching his head.

Rose studied the winter landscape in her cup. ”I suppose so. There are a few things you might help me with,” she said.

He nodded for her to go ahead.

-:-

Rose Tyler was anything but a princess. Peter learned that as they talked. She had a sensible quality about her, an earthiness, that suggested she was well aware and proud of her origins. There was a very becoming humbleness about her, but he also sensed that there was more to her. He was easily chatting to the most beautiful and fascinating woman he had met since Natalie. Well, apart from lupamala, but they hadn’t talked to each other in person.

Eventually, when he had answered all her questions about Travis and the case, they fell silent. He didn’t mind one bit. He had long since finished his coffee, but he found himself unwilling to leave. The plan had been to check on Rose — they were on first-name basis now — and then leave to enjoy a quiet afternoon off with his book and an email or two to lupamala. Sometimes she replied so fast that they’d exchange more than one email a day. 

He studied the sky between the edge of the sunshade and the tops of the potted plants that provided privacy. What was going on here? He’d promised himself he'd never to fall for a woman involved in a case again. Never ever. It only brought heartache, plus it might end his career, like it nearly had all those years ago in Blackpool if he hadn’t withdrawn and left after she'd told him she wouldn't go with him. 

Did that mean he was falling for Rose?

He frowned. No. He mustn’t. She was so much younger than him. She was a successful businesswoman, one who did great things for the less fortunate in this country. Why would she want to be with a copper?

Rose gasped, rousing him from his thoughts. He looked at her in alarm. ”Rose?”

She was staring at him. No, she was looking at him in that searching way she had. At first he had wondered if she needed glasses, but it was more like she was looking for someone. Or trying to make a connection. But where would she recognise him from?

”Now I know! All this time I’ve been trying to remember why you seem so familiar to me,” Rose explained. She stood quickly and hurried inside, leaving him puzzled. If she was going to get his picture, he wondered how she’d come by it. His photo didn’t turn up in the papers often. Once or twice a year maybe. Tops. 

Rose returned with a book, open to the glossy paper the publishers inserted for the high-quality colour photos. He accepted the book automatically and stared at the photo. It was the one of Professor John Smith in Verity Newman’s biographical novel, half fact, half fiction.

He looked up at her. She was sitting on the edge of her teak chair. ”Do you really think I look like him?” he asked. It was not a terribly clever question.

Rose shrugged. ”I didn’t mean to offend you.”

”You didn’t,” he hurried to say. ”It’s just so uncanny, isn’t it? I mean… the photo was taken almost a century ago.”

”Relatives sometimes look alike. Look at Verity Newman and her great-grandmother,” Rose said.

”You don’t think it was cleverly photoshopped?” he asked.

Rose laughed. ”You’re the detective. You tell me. Have you ever worked as a model?”

”No.” Heat crept into his face. But Rose did have a point. ”I don’t know of anyone called John Smith in my family, though.”

”Maybe it’s just coincidence then,” Rose said, blushing now, and taking the book from him. ”It was a long shot anyway. I’m sorry.”

”Don’t worry, it’s okay,” he said. Rose put the book on her lap and made herself more comfortable in her seat. 

”Is the book any good?”

”I’m not sure. I haven’t really started reading it yet,” Rose replied carefully. 

What was she not telling him? Not that she owed him anything.

”The reason I’m asking is I got it the other day, a recommendation by a new member of staff at my favourite bookshop, and I’ve been wondering if it’s any good. I haven’t started it yet either,” he said in an attempt to get her to talk. But he sensed that she had clammed up.

”I’ll let you know when I’m through with it,” Rose offered eventually. ”It certainly sounds intriguing. I’ll probably imagine John Smith with a Scottish accent. If you don’t mind.”

Peter laughed. ”I don’t if it makes your reading experience more vivid.” And then he understood what she was implying. She was going to read the book with him in mind. A pleasant shiver travelled down his spine.

Rose gave him another one of her searching looks, but eventually she shook her head as if to dismiss the thought and smiled. He’d lost her. The intelligent, warm Rose was gone. Maybe he should go.

He checked his watch. ”Is that the time,” he muttered in genuine surprise. ”I’d better get going.”

”Sorry to keep you,” Rose said sheepishly.

”Don’t worry about it. You had quite a few questions. I was glad to help,” he said.

They left the rooftop garden and Rose walked him to the elevator doors. ”I had a lovely time. Thank you,” Rose said.

”You’ll let me know what you think of the book?” he asked, in one last attempt to make this not the last time they saw each other. _What are you doing, Carlisle!?_ he scolded himself.

”Only if you do too,” Rose said.

Unsure of how to react at first, he smiled. ”I will. You know where to find me.”

”Goodbye, Peter,” she said as the lift doors dinged open.

-:-

_I liked the exhibition at the Tate, so much so that I’ll have to go back when I can enjoy the art without having to socialise. It’s what I like so much about art: you can enjoy it and communicate with the artist and no words are needed. We speak so much during the day — at least I do, in my line of work — that sometimes it’s really good to be able to be quiet. Depending on your company during a visit to the museum, it’s also nice to be quiet together — or to discuss things vividly. I’d really like to go there with you so we can discuss the artwork. There were quite a few pieces I really enjoyed and want to look at again, but there were also some I didn’t care for._

_Of course, the grand opening was overshadowed by the police operation. I’m sure you’ve read all the gory details in this morning’s various papers. Let me assure you that it was less dramatic than they make it out to be. Most of us had no idea what was going on until the offender was frogmarched out of the museum by uniformed officers. Poor Rose Tyler, though. She was quite shaken, but also very brave. I see her in a completely different light now._

”What were _you_ doing during the police operation?” Rose asked out loud as she read PB’s email. She’d made herself something to eat after Peter had left, and pottered around the flat before she’d decided that she needed some time to herself. So she had settled on the deck chair with a glass of wine and her iPad.

_I see now what you meant about not being delicate — if you’ll allow me to draw parallels between you and Rose Tyler. It’s about being strong and standing up for yourself and those you love, right?_

_I’ve been wondering about something else you said. I nearly died for the man I loved. What happened to him? I noticed your use of the past tense. You don’t need to answer me if it makes you uncomfortable, or if it’s too personal. It’s just that the idea hasn’t left me alone. I’m not sure I can say I’d do the same for the woman I love. I think I would, but I haven’t loved anyone that much in a long time. And although my wife left me a long time ago I’m not sure that even at the height of things, when we were still happy together, I can truthfully say I’d have died for her. There might have been a time when I would have. I don’t know._

_I’ve met someone today. She’s wonderful. I was surprised she’d be willing to chat with me at all. Not because she’s arrogant — which she’s not, she’s one of the most modest people I’ve had the pleasure to meet — but because she’s absolutely out of my league. And you know what the embarrassing thing is? I am beginning to fall for her. But of course it’s probably just my imagination running wild. I think I’d better concentrate on John and Joan’s story and forget about her. I gave her an out when we parted — it was one of those serendipitous encounters that come along when you least expect them (after, say, a bad week)._

Rose leaned back in her chair. Was she seeing things, like she had with the similarity between Peter and John, or was PB telling her about her chat with Peter earlier that afternoon?

Was PaisleyBoy the Scottish DCI who had arrested the fanatic who wanted to kidnap her last night? 

Surely, that couldn’t be. Or could it?

She perused what she’d read so far. It could be Peter who’d written all this, but that would be very unlikely, wouldn’t it? Because if PB really was Peter — then he was falling for _her_. And she for him.

That was why she had kept herself so busy since he’d left. She didn’t want to indulge in a fantasy, of maybe falling in love with him. She was sure that there was no room in his life for her. A man like him had to be in a happy and loving relationship with someone already. That was The Rule.

There were two things she could do: let it go and tell herself she was imagining things. Or she could hit the reply button and address him as Peter and sign with her real name. Did he have an idea of what had happened this afternoon? Did he have an idea that she might be lupamala?

”What’s it to be, Rose Tyler?” she asked. If she was brave she might start a whole new chapter in her life. If she was not, she’d keep going like this, complacent in her independence and the conviction that there was no exception to The Rule.

And then, of course, there was the question of _A Journal of Impossible Things._ Who was John Smith? It might be safer to find out who he really was, rather than go on a wild goose chase and be mortified to find out that it was all in her head.


	7. Seven

Part Two  
— Recovery —

Seven

You come awake  
in a horny morning mood  
and we’ll have a proper wriggle  
in the naughty, naked nude  
roll against my body  
get me where you want me

I’ll go and get the post  
and make some tea and toast  
you have another sleep, love.  
It’s me that needs it most  
— Ian Dury, _Wake Up and Make Love With Me_

”Are you returning my shirt?” Sherlock said when the floorboards creaked beneath her weight as she entered her bedroom. She had nipped downstairs to make some tea, clad in his shirt, the plum-coloured one that set off his pale skin so beautifully.

Irene stopped, taking in the sight of him as he stood by the window, the slatted sunlight drawing a bright line around the shape of his naked body. There was just enough ambient light to suggest the swell of his bum and the planes of his back. He looked back at her over his shoulder, hiding from — or was he teasing? — her. The sun highlighted the merest hint of stubble, and it gleamed in his mussed locks.

”I left you the robe,” she said, indicating the shiny puddle of satin in front of the bed.

He spared it a quick glance, then returned his gaze to the brightness beyond the slats of the shutters.

”You’re gorgeous,” she said, closing the distance between them. She held out the mug of tea she had fixed for him. 

There was a brief pause before he minutely raised an eyebrow and accepted the mug. ”Thank you.”

He sipped his tea, humming in appreciation. She’d remembered correctly how he preferred it. She always remembered things like this, it was part of her job, but it was also always good to know that he noted it. Of course, coming from Sherlock, it was high praise. 

They enjoyed the silence of the morning for a while, drinking their tea and staring out over the grounds. After looking through the slats for a while, they seemed to disappear, giving fine view of the garden. It was going to be another hot June day, and Irene dreaded leaving the cool seaside, where a constant breeze stirred the lush foliage and made the heat more bearable. Also, leaving The Dunes meant leaving a feeling of safety she hadn’t known since Sherlock had stripped her bare in front of his brother.

Irene should hate him for unlocking her secrets, for treating her so cruelly when he knew how she really felt about him. He had prised off her mask, a mask that had been so firmly attached to her face that it came off like a band-aid that was peeled off the skin aching millimetre by aching millimetre. The truth was, however, that he had set her free from a life whose reins had started to slip from between her fingers. She’d never say it out loud, but James Moriarty scared her to death. Sherlock, on the other hand, had put an end to it all. And although he had left her to what few devices she still commanded to protect herself he had come and saved her life when those weren't enough any more. She’d only lived a half-life among the shadows before that night in Karachi, so being locked up here, in this golden cage, was something that she gladly accepted.

Strangely enough, Mycroft did not seem to know what was going on at The Dunes. He apparently didn’t even know about the new identity she and Sherlock had created for her. But then she supposed that Sherlock had enough sources of his own to provide him with anything that was necessary to start over again in America.

”So this is goodbye,” she said, putting her mug down on a polished occasional table to her right.

”Yes. I’ve got your tickets in my pocket,” he said, putting his mug down on the same table by reaching around her.

”When’s the flight?”

”Not until later this afternoon,” he said, turning towards her. The slatted sunlight gave him a wildcat’s stripes, so suitable for the almost feline grace of his lithe body. She raised her forefinger to trace the outline of the stripes on his arm; the light made the hairs growing there glow. It was not exactly an innocent gesture, but it was discreet enough for him to move away from her touch. Which he didn’t.

Sherlock raised his free hand to touch the buttons on his stolen shirt, but his hand hovered in mid-air. His insecurity was endearing. Irene let go of him and guided his hand to the shirt, gently smoothing his palm against her chest. His eyes dilated in a flash.

Irene didn’t smile. She wanted to be gentle with him. She wanted him to see the woman behind the mask, the other side of the Woman who had beaten him into submission with a riding crop, albeit in a completely different context. When he tightened his fingers a little over her breast she let go. His hand felt good, entirely different from most people’s touches.

He met her eyes and she smiled softly. Then he raised his other hand as well to undo the buttons of the shirt, and when he had reached the bottom, he slid his right hand beneath the material to feel the skin of her breast. Although she had expected his touch, it was, when it finally came, electrifying. Irene gasped. His hand was so warm.

”I’m sorry,” he said, withdrawing and averting his gaze.

”No!” she almost cried. ”It’s all right. It was just so delicious. You, touching me for the first time.”

He met her intense gaze. She wanted him to know that this really was okay, that she wanted… everything he was ready to give her.

”I am no virgin,” he said.

”I know.” 

”Sex is just not something very important to me,” he said.

”No.” _Because you’d have to give up control, and you can’t do that._

His hand, however, still hovered between them in mid-air as if it wanted to tell his body that he could still touch her and remain sovereign over his senses.

”We can make this anything you want it to be, Mr Holmes,” she said. ”After all, this is goodbye.”

”I don’t want the Woman,” he said, dropping his hand. As Irene followed its journey, she saw that he was beginning to grow hard. ”I want _the_ Woman. I want —”

”Yes?” she looked up at him, wondering how often he’d said the words _I want_. 

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back.

”Why are you so scared?” she asked.

He didn’t reply.

She stepped closer to him, reaching out to take him in her hand, to feel him, half-limp, the weight of him. His softness. 

Sherlock sucked in his breath.

”Tell me to stop,” she said, only implying the _when_.

He hummed, not in appreciation this time, nor in acknowledgement. She started to stroke him, her thumb joining the journey of his pulse until she reached the head, where she circled the smooth skin there. So soft, beginning to dampen with the first few drops of his arousal.

”Miss Adler.”

”Yes,” she said, setting a lazy rhythm up and down his shaft.

”I took care of that. While you were making tea.”

Oh. ”Seems _he_ doesn’t care,” she said, stepping as close to him as possible without interrupting what she was doing. ”Touch me, Mr Holmes.”

”I — ”

”Will you do one more thing for me, Mr Holmes? One last thing?” she asked.

He looked at her, the ocean gone from his eyes, replaced by a starless night sky.

”Take your mask off for me. You took mine — don’t I get yours?” she said softly.

”You are masturbating me.”

Irene stopped her movement, then dropped her hand away from his cock. ”Very well.” Cold crept into her voice as she stepped away from him, slipping his shirt off. ”I suppose I’ll get ready then. It’s a long drive to Heathrow. It is Heathrow I’m leaving from?”

He opened his mouth to say something other than her name. She could see it in the shape of his lips. Those kissable lips. They’d never kiss her now. Ever.

”I want you!” he said hastily. ”I want _you_ , Irene, not someone you think you need to be. Not for me.”

Irene was stunned. ”But I can’t do that if you don’t let go. Because it takes two to play this game.”

”I want to. It’s difficult.”

Irene dropped to her knees, taking him by the hips. Then she took him in her mouth, as much of him as she could. She swirled her tongue around him, bringing him back to full hardness. Sherlock bucked and moaned. Then she released him.

”Let go. Like this. It’s easy.” _It’s a lot more difficult for me_ , she added silently.

”No, not like this. Not with you,” he said. He touched her shoulders in a gesture for her to get up. Irene stopped herself from telling him what a gentleman he was after all. He was so vulnerable; teasing him would drive him away just as easily as it had attracted him. 

”Tell me, what would you like?”

”I’d like… I _want_ to look at you. Properly,” he said, his hands reaching for the sides of the plum-coloured shirt.

Irene smiled at him in encouragement. Sherlock brushed the material aside, baring her breasts, her stomach and her pubic mound to his eyes. He touched her left breast, running his fingers over her skin at first before he cupped and weighed it in his palm. He covered and hid it, unknowingly giving her pleasure as he put pressure on her nipple. He explored her other breast as well, brushed his thumb over its peak, getting to know her as well as gaining confidence.

Then he ran both his hands up to her shoulders to brush the shirt off her shoulders. It rustled to the floor, where it landed with a dull thump and several bright clicks when the buttons hit the wooden floor. ”You are beautiful,” he mumbled, taking a step back.

He was a scientist, taking her in, but he was also becoming a lover, drinking her in. To her surprise, Irene felt more naked in that moment than she had when they had first met. Then, she had been in her battle dress. Now, she was truly naked. 

Before she knew what was happening, he’d closed the distance between them and swept her up into his arms to carry her and lay her out on the rumpled bed. He joined her in a swift movement, and then he began to explore her with his hands. They travelled all over her body, leaving no bit of skin undiscovered, unclaimed, except the darker skin of her sex.

Irene opened her legs in invitation. To her surprise, he cupped it briefly, the warmth of his palm almost burning her, before he buried his nose between her legs to take in her scent.

She cried out in pleasure, unaware of how tense, how impatient, she had been for him to touch her. 

He look up at her.

”More, please?” was all she was able to say. She couldn't believe that a man like Sherlock Holmes was able to reduce her to this. Pleading with him, instead of guiding him. While she was sure that he was not very experienced, she knew — had always known — that his instincts were powerful. ”Kiss me.”

He crawled up her body to do just that, and although her first reaction was to laugh, to tell him she wanted him to kiss her sex, she bit her lip because she realised that they hadn’t really kissed. All this time she had been fantasizing about his full, perfect lips, and now that she had them, she didn’t even taste them? What was wrong with her?

The kiss was awkward at first, a bit sloppy, all noses and teeth getting in the way, a bit too shy and then too impatient on his side, but then he learned to allow her in, to slow things down. The best part of it was, however, his hardness pressing into her stomach, the wetness it was spreading there. 

Once he had discovered the pleasure of kissing, he sent his lips and tongue on the same journey his hands had already completed, and were joining again. When he reached her sex, he did kiss her there, and she sobbed with relief. ”Like my mouth,” she said. ”Kiss me there like you did my mouth. Play with me,” she encouraged him, pushing her fingers into his dark locks. How long she’d wanted to do this, run her fingers through his hair.

If this was saying goodbye to Sherlock, she wanted to leave often.

He kissed and licked her, and once he discovered suckling on her, he gave more pleasure than anyone had managed to give her in a long time — than she’d allowed herself to experience, because saying goodbye was so hard. 

He gave her clit one last flick and sent her over the edge, and when she cried out she didn’t recognise her own voice at first. She’d rarely heard it before, and it was her parting gift. The gift of herself to her most innocent and vulnerable of lovers.

Sherlock was a bit stunned by the force of her orgasm, but he quickly understood her need to be held. Wiping his glistening chin, he stretched out beside her, pushing an arm beneath her shoulders so she could snuggle up to him.

”Thank you,” she said, dropping a kiss to the slight dip where shoulder met pec. 

”Was it all right, though?” he asked. Like any male, he needed the praise.

”Oh yes,” she purred, because it was the truth.

Then, surprising him, she rolled him onto his back. He hadn’t liked it when she’d taken him in her mouth, but as she straddled him she sat on his thighs so she could stroke his cock. He tried to control his breathing as she established a rhythm he enjoyed, and Irene ran a hand up his stomach and chest to feel his heart beating. Her fingers combed through his sparse chest hair. ”Let yourself go,” she said.

”I don’t want to come like this,” he said.

”What _do_ you want?” she asked, leaning forward.

”I want to be inside you. I want to feel you,” he said.

”Yes,” she said. She sat up, remembering that she had stashed away her emergency condoms in her bag, and got off the bed.

”Irene?” he asked in alarm. Did he have any idea how… adorable he was? And how funny the notion that in that moment, the definition of adorable would be illustrated by his photo? She tried to ignore the fact that he had called her by her first name. It'd just make things more complicated if she dwelled on – or reacted to – it.

”I just need to get a condom,” she said.

”Oh. Of course.” He shifted on the bed.

After she had found the foil packets, she tore one off, and held it between her teeth, making sure not to damage the silver material. She climbed onto the bed and sat on the tops of his thighs again to roll the condom onto him. ”May I?” she asked, removing the packet from between her teeth.

Sherlock nodded mutely, resting his hands on her thighs, then on her waist as she tore the packet open and put the condom on him.

He gasped.

Then he looked up at her.

Irene shifted, took his cock and guided it to her sex, resting his head between her lips.

”Relax,” she said, to no one in particular. She was just as nervous about this as he was.

He felt massive when she took him into her. Warm and alive — pulsing with need — despite the thin coat of latex.

”God!” he gasped, his eyes fluttering shut, his grip tightening around her waist.

”Yes,” she hissed in reply. She sank down on him, taking him deeply. When she could finally take no more, she breathed, accommodating him and getting used to him inside her. So this was it. She was making love to Sherlock Holmes.

She dropped her hands onto his abdomen, stroked his pale skin there, making his muscles twitch. His eyes flew open as he smiled.

”Ticklish, Mr Holmes?” she asked.

”It would appear so,” he replied. He laughed, the movement sending ripples of pleasure through her as he twitched inside her.

”Oh,” she sighed.

”You sound good,” he said, sobering. ”So much better than my text alert.”

”Do I?” she sighed.

”Yes.”

Irene started to move then, following the need to hear him sigh again, a sound she’d never tire of, one she’d never hear again, one that she wanted to commit to memory. His grip on her waist tightened and he threw back his head, the tendons in his neck standing out, his perfect lips parted. He was gorgeous.

She rode him, alternating stroking with gyrating, combining the movements. She reached behind her, just above his knees for support, opening up and brushing sensitive spots inside her, riding herself to another orgasm. 

She came powerfully, far too soon, almost a bit early, but it was perfect in its flaw. Stars did not erupt and she didn’t fall. It was different, entirely unexpected, and her surprise and the intensity of the feeling stole her words. Irene cried out loud, then slumped forward onto his chest, dazed and wanting to cry.

Crying.

”Irene?” he rumbled. He stroked her cheek. ”Are you all right?”

”Yes.”

”Why are you crying?”

”This is goodbye,” she pointed out. ”And you haven’t come.”

”I don’t need to.”

”I won’t allow you not to. I’ve given you my mask, now I want yours.”

”Metaphors. You’ve already got mine,” he said.

”I don’t think so, Mr Holmes,” she said. She squeezed her muscles around him. He was still very hard, and she could see, in his restrained breathing and the sheen of sweat covering him, that he was trying, desperately, to hang on, to get a grip on his control. ”Just this once, let go. Do it for yourself. It’s my parting gift,” she said. ”And you can’t deny that.”

He looked at her searchingly. Was there fear in his eyes? ”I suppose I can’t,” he admitted.

Irene rolled them, never allowing him to slip out of her. He settled between her legs as if he’d never known a different place, and really giving in to his needs, accepting her gift, he started to move. It was awkward at first, until he found his rhythm, trying to find out what pleased both of them, so needy for perfection. It never was perfect the first time, bur Irene knew that they needed this to be perfect because there wouldn’t be a second time.

She shifted, pulling him deeper inside her, and Sherlock began to move with more urgency, his damp skin slapping against hers. He was keeping himself off her with his elbows, but she drew him down to her, their kiss sloppy, and she whispered to him.

Then, eventually, he stilled, tensing as he spilled himself into the condom, his eyes squeezed shut, a prolonged groan oozing from his lips. The sunlight had now reached the bed, and it made the sweat on his body glisten, painting the animal stripes on his skin.

It was over.


	8. Eight

Eight

Nights in white satin, never reaching the end  
Letters I've written, never meaning to send  
Beauty I'd always missed with these eyes before  
Just what the truth is, I can't say anymore  
— The Moody Blues, _Nights in White Satin_

_I’m glad to hear that you might have found someone. Hopefully, the two of you will find love together — if you truly love her, you will understand me a little better. You won’t even have to wonder if you’d die for her. You would. I had the privilege of loving a man like this once. But I lost him. I saved his life and made sure he didn’t lose his home, but in doing so I had to do a terrible thing, and he left me behind. I betrayed his trust because that terrible thing — and I honestly don’t know what it was — hurt him so much he didn’t want to be with me any more. I know he sounds like a right git, but please believe me that I am sure he had his reasons. He’s a complicated man. He probably wanted to protect me from the horrors of the universe. Anyway. Please tell me about the woman you met. I must admit I’d been wondering why a man like you was single._

_I read the news story about what happened to Rose Tyler last night. Her life isn’t an easy one, and the press are making it even more difficult. The idea of being adored like she is, so adored that some sick person gets it into his head to abduct her because he thinks he knows what’s best for her, and that is to be away from the public for a while — it sounds a lot like the King novel. I can’t remember the title right now. It must be so awful. It’s a good thing that the police were on top of things. I’m sure she has her coping mechanisms — she must have._

_So. The book. I don’t want to call it a novel or a biography yet, not until I’ve finished it. I really like Joan — she is very strong, and I admire her for taking her life into her own hands. It’s good to know that some women in those days could lead independent, fulfilling lives with decent jobs._

_That sounds feminist, doesn’t it. I’m not a feminist; I think that everyone should have the chance to live the life of their choice, no matter which sex. But that’s a different topic._

Peter leaned back in his chair. He had expected lupamala to write more about the book, so her brief opinion left him wanting more, and he had the impression that lupamala wanted to say more but didn’t know how. But that might be him, because John Smith wouldn’t leave him alone. Ever since Rose had pointed out the physical similarity between them he’d had a hard time thinking of anything else. It certainly was a good thing that he had the weekend off. 

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Who was this John Smith? The idea to research him, to even talk to the author, was very tempting. Peter stood, following sudden inspiration, and retrieved the book from his bedside table. Flicking through the pages, he tried to find credits for the photos, but there were none, just a thank-you note to a photographer for his help with restoring the old photos. So they must be the author’s property.

It couldn’t hurt to contact the publisher to make sure — but what would he tell them? That he looked a lot like the bloke in the picture? He certainly wasn’t going to put pressure on them by telling them that he was with the Met. This was personal business. And he’d made it a point, ever since Blackpool, not to mix business with pleasure. He’d come close enough to breaking that Rule when he’d gone to see Rose Tyler privately after she’d given her statement. Technically, that had been after the Jolly Roger case was closed, and Rose Tyler was not involved any more. 

Still.

It was too close for comfort.

Or maybe he should just sit back and enjoy the story and not over-analyse things.

Slipping on his glasses, he switched on his computer, googled Verity Newman, and found her blog. It would be so easy to contact her — it was just one mouse click.

Sod it. He quickly typed his question, telling her that he’d like to talk about John Smith’s photo to her. With that, the ball was in Ms Newman’s court.

What would he do with any answer she could provide anyway? If she said the photo was hers, that it was genuine — well, that was it. Doppelgangers weren’t unheard of, but what intrigued Peter was the fact that his doppelganger’s photo had been taken almost a hundred years ago.

Then he googled the school, but the historical information had few details about former teachers and students. Peter thought it was a bit odd, given that the school counted itself among the more venerable institutions of its kind. The interesting thing, however, was that while it had also educated its pupils in the military arts, it now strongly favoured an education that leaned towards the peaceful resolution of conflicts and diplomacy. 

The school _had_ seen two world wars, so that wasn’t surprising in and of itself. The interesting thing about it was that the school had changed its educational aim on the eve of the Great War, in the early months of 1914. Peter had always perceived this period as particularly volatile; some books he had read on the topic of war suggested that people had actually wanted the war because it would finally resolve all the tensions and conflicts that kept the world on so edge. Why would a school proud of its military tradition change so completely right then?

He supposed that for the moment all he could do was read the book and hope that Verity Newman hadn’t taken too much of a poetic license in telling the story of her great-grandmother and her alien lover.

Peter made himself a cup of tea and was about to shut down his computer to read when the system alerted him of an incoming email. Thinking that it was probably just a piece of junk mail that had slipped through the filter, he remained standing. But then he saw the sender’s name. It wasn’t lupamala — he hadn’t replied to her last letter yet — but Verity Newman.

_Dear Peter,_

_both photos in my book are authentic. All I did was enhance the quality for print with the help of a professional photographer. The photos were amongst a host of other old family pictures I found in the attic — cliché, I know, but it’s the truth._

_I hope that helps._

_Best regards_

_Verity Newman_

Peter hit the reply button and told her why he had asked. He needed to find out more about John Smith, now more than ever, hoping that she’d believe him when he told her that he looked like John.

Again, the answer came promptly. 

_I don’t know what to say. Maybe we could meet for a cuppa soon if you’re based in London? It appears we both have a lot of questions — and you’ll forgive me for my curiosity._

They arranged a place and time to meet. Peter’s heart was hammering, as it always did when he found a case particularly intriguing. He knew that he shouldn’t feel like this because more often than not the fate of the victims was horrible. He liked the mystery, and the satisfaction that came with bringing a bit of justice to the world. 

Peter decided to write to lupamala instead of reading. This was exciting news and he wanted to share it with her. Maybe that would elicit a reaction. But first he picked up his phone and texted Rose. She’d want to know this too.

-:-

”Where have you been?” John asked with the air of a worried but relieved parent when Sherlock entered the flat. He stood from the chair at the desk where he’d been working on a blog entry, taking a step towards him.

”I went to The Dunes,” Sherlock replied. He had been gone the whole night, and it was the late afternoon now.

”You’ve spent seven hours in the car to spend a few hours at your brother’s house?” John asked, blinking in surprise.

”No, I’ve spent seven hours in the car to spend a few hours in _our_ house,” Sherlock corrected him. He looked pale with exhaustion, but there was something else about his friend that John couldn’t put a label on. ”How was the grand opening?”

”They arrested Travis,” John said. ”Apparently, Rose Tyler hit him with a stall door in the Ladies’ when he got too close to her.”

”Hmm,” Sherlock made, ”quite a spirited woman, Miss Tyler is. Have you got a headline for the blog entry yet?”

”No. I’m not going to write about it. It wasn’t a case.”

”Yes, it was.”

”No, it wasn’t,” John didn’t want to argue with Sherlock when he had neither slept properly nor had enough tea to think straight. Sherlock would deny, of course, that lack of sleep and stimulants affected his judgement and reasoning. ”Look, why don’t we talk about this later? We could go out for a bite. We haven’t done that in ages.”

”It’s because of that stupid hat,” Sherlock said sulkily.

”What?”

”Everyone recognises us.”

”It’s our neighbourhood, Sherlock,” John pointed out. ”We only frequent a few places. People do recognise us. We could go to the _Brindisia_. We haven’t been there in ages.”

To his surprise, all Sherlock did was nod. ”I’ll just take a bath and a nap,” he said, heading for his room. John frowned. What was wrong with Sherlock? Shaking his head, John sat down to finish the blog entry.

Sherlock’s behaviour mystified him. He stared at the blinking cursor on the screen, not thinking about the entry at all. He’d only ever seen Sherlock so upset after he had received the news of Irene Adler’s death — fake death, of course, but they hadn’t known that then. John turned around in his chair to look at the violin in the Le Corbusier chair, where Sherlock had left it behind the previous night. He had played Irene’s Theme.

John’s head snapped up and he straightened in his own chair. Had this been about Irene Adler? Had she, somehow, survived and come back to ask for Sherlock’s help? John stared. Had Sherlock really gone and helped her, after all that had happened? Not that John had any idea what had really happened, since both Sherlock, and most likely Mycroft too, had chosen to keep him in the dark. When Sherlock had returned that night several months ago, his otherwise stony face had had a wistful look to it. It had only been visible when sherlock thought that he was unobserved, but it _was_ there. They had been sharing a flat long enough for John to be able to read Sherlock’s more subtle body language.

He suppressed the urge to ask Mycroft. He might have answers, but John doubted that Mycroft would betray his younger brother’s confidence, even if they seemed to be constantly squabbling like little boys. Besides, he had a feeling that it would be the other way round; he’d be betraying Sherlock if he talked to Mycroft about it.

”Oh, Sherlock,” John muttered.

Suddenly, quite a lot of things began to make sense. Sherlock’s three-day trip earlier. His frequent trips to The Dunes and the strange excuses he had come up with — maintenance needed to be done, craftsmen supervised, interior designers talked to. Sherlock didn’t really care about things like that — it was Mycroft who was in charge of that. Had Sherlock _wanted_ John to find out? 

”Why can’t you tell me, Sherlock?” John muttered, shaking his head. He didn’t know whether to be insulted or grateful. But that was how Sherlock made you feel, wasn’t it? Because he didn’t want to be sussed out. ”Dammit,” John cursed. Sherlock ought to know better than to treat him like this. 

A couple of hours later, Sherlock emerged from his room refreshed from a bath and a nap. ”I’m starving,” he announced.

”When’s the last time you ate?” John asked.

Sherlock waved dismissively. ”Can’t remember. Off to Angelo’s, shall we?”

”Sure,” John said with a heavy sigh. Sherlock was unusually chipper — was he giddy with hunger and, possibly, fatigue? What had happened to his wistfulness?

John tried not to be too obvious as he looked at him as they walked the short distance to the restaurant. It was a lovely evening, mild now after another scorcher of an afternoon. The streets were pulsing with life. Pubs, cafés and restaurants had put up extra tables and chairs on the pavements, and fairy lights had been spun like spiders’ webs into the trees and across the streets. It was a bit like Christmas come early, only much much warmer.

As always, Angelo made sure they got their table in the window of the _Brindisia_ ; Sherlock had insisted they sit inside and, despite the warm weather, it was packed inside. Still, Angelo managed, as if by magic, to somehow make their favourite table in the window available for them. Sherlock sat with his back to the window, offering John the seat with a view. 

”Anything on the menu, anything you want, it’s on the house. For both of you, eh?” Angelo announced with a wink and a smile, producing a candlestick seemingly out of thin air and setting it between them on the table with a flourish. He lit it with an even more extravagant gesture. Sherlock rolled his eyes in mild annoyance. At least that part of the old Sherlock was still there.

”So, everything all right at The Dunes?” John asked after Angelo had vanished.

”Yeah,” Sherlock drawled.

”Good. So. The work, is it finished?”

”Yes.” A hint of relief laced his friend’s voice. It was curious, but eloquent. This was Sherlock confirming John’s theory.

”All to your satisfaction, I trust?”

”Oh, yes,” Sherlock said, not even trying to hide the ghost of a smile. John, however, cultivated a mask of mild interest.

”Good. No more trips then?”

”I don't think so.” Finally, Sherlock focused on John, fixing him with that intense stare that let John know that he was aware of the double meaning in their conversation. But it also warned him not to raise the topic again. Ever. John acknowledged it with a minute nod.

Angelo brought their drinks and some bread and olive oil. Sherlock pounced on the food. John raised an eyebrow.

They shared their appetiser in silence, until Sherlock seemed satisfied for the moment. ”Were you in London six years ago?” he suddenly asked.

Trust Sherlock to surprise him. John looked outside, past the lamps in the window and over the heads of the patrons seated outside. ”No, I don’t believe so,” John answered. “Why?”

”But you do remember the news? About 10, Downing Street?”

”Yes, of course,” John said. How couldn’t he? The whole place had blown up, and the then back-bencher MP and present Prime Minister Harriet Jones had left the rubble with nary a scratch on her, reassuring people that the crisis had been averted.

”Do you know who else survived the blast? Apart from her?” Sherlock asked, fixing him with an intent stare.

John couldn’t remember. ”Who?”

”Rose Tyler, and a man called the Doctor,” Sherlock said, chucking the last bit of bread on the crumb-strewn table.

”Doctor Who?”

”Exactly. He turns up again and again, whenever there’s an inexplicable crisis: the explosion of Henrik’s, the Christmas Invasion, to name but a few. It’s always him,” Sherlock listed. “I’ve found him in photos of survivors of the Titanic and as a witness to Kennedy’s assassination. It’s always the same man.”

”And Rose Tyler?” John concluded.

”Yes, but she’s not always with him,” he replied. 

”What do you want to do? Go ask her about it?” John asked, only half-mocking, because he knew the answer. Sherlock needed to know who this Doctor was. Frankly, he wouldn’t mind getting some answers himself. Sometimes he hated how easily his curiosity was piqued.

”Yes.”

”You are sure it’s her?”

”I am. But it can’t hurt to check the footage.”

John shook his head, smiling. ”Did you ask Mycroft about her?”

Sherlock gave him his best don’t-be-ridiculous look. ”Where would be the fun of that?”

”Yes, of course. You’re right.”

They smiled at each other, and right then Angelo arrived with their food. John was surprised how hungry he was, and they tucked in with gusto, sharing their meal in companionable silence.

-:-

_Hi. Would you give me a ring? I’ve got news about John Smith. P Carlisle._

Rose stared at the text in surprise. She hadn’t expected to hear from Peter again, at least not privately, and certainly not so soon. He must have gone home and done some research on John Smith. Apparently, he found the idea of having a doppelganger more disturbing or intriguing than he’d let on. Rose had to admit that she was curious as well. She dialled the number. Peter picked up after the first ring.

”Hello. It’s Rose. Tyler.”

”That was fast. I wasn’t sure if it’d be okay to ring you at this hour,” Peter said. His mellow brogue sent a warm shiver down Rose’s spine. She hadn’t been aware of how charming she found it. She was sitting in her rooftop garden, enjoying the summer evening, nursing a glass of wine and reading _A Journal of Impossible Things_. 

”That’s kind. I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said, although she was quite sure that he had been waiting for her call.

”I’ve just talked to Verity Newman about John Smith’s photo. She’s agreed to meet me tomorrow,” he said.

”Oh.”

”I’ll tell you everything after. I haven’t mentioned you because I didn’t want to scare her off. I hope that’s okay,” he said.

”That’s probably a good idea,” Rose replied, even though she wanted to beg him to take her with him. ”I’m reading the book right now. I haven’t got that far yet, but I think I’ll make some progress tonight. It’s lovely out here.”

She could hear Peter’s smile in his voice. ”I bet it is. I really enjoyed this afternoon.”

”Me too,” Rose replied. She thought of PB. Her heart was hammering as the next question popped into her consciousness. Now was the chance to find out if Peter was PB without making a complete fool of herself. ”Listen, why don’t we exchange email addresses? It’ll make things easier.”

”Good idea. Have you got a pen?”

Rose opened a new file in her Notes app. Just in case. ”I’m ready.”

”It’s paisleyboy at—”

”Mail4u dot co dot uk,” Rose finished for him, her voice hitching. She ended with a nervous laugh.

There was a pause. ”How did you know that?”

Rose was unable to speak. Peter was paisleyboy, her dear friend PB. How was she going to tell him without making him feel betrayed? 

”Rose?”

”I’ve used it a lot. And you’ve been using mine. It’s lupamala.”

Silence.

”My address. It’s lupamala at —” she said.

”Mail4u dot co dot uk. I know. Peter and the Wolf.”

”Yeah.”

”How long have you known?”

”I figured it out just after you left. I was too scared to say anything,” Rose said.

Again, there was a brief silence. ”I’m glad it’s you. I was hoping it was you.”

”Yeah. I saw,” she said. ”In your email. Have you… ?”

”Never even dreamed,” Peter said.

”So. What do we do?”

”I’d love to see you again. Preferably before I go to talk to Verity,” he replied.

”Are you a wine person?”

”I’ve got a small but fine cellar. What kind of wine do you like?” he asked.

”I was thinking… of sharing a glass of white wine? At my place? You did say you enjoyed the rooftop garden,” she suggested, blood now rushing in her ears. It was a very bold move. 

There was a brief pause and Rose was afraid he’d say no. She’d have understood too. He was the DCI working her case, and it certainly was not quite ethical to spend time with the victim privately. Even if the case was closed. Now it looked like they were moving from an anonymous friendship to something else rather abruptly. 

”I’ll be at yours in about half an hour.”


	9. Nine

Nine

If heaven is a place upon your skin  
That I may have touched from without to within  
Then dust yourself of fingerprints and grin  
— I Am Kloot, _Fingerprints_

The bottle was covered with a thin sheen of moisture. He’d snatched it from his fridge on his way out. In the cab he’d put the bottle between his feet where the blast from the air conditioning was strongest. Now that he was in the lift of Rose’s building, he was afraid of dropping it. 

”Hello,” she said as the door slid open. She had changed into jeans and a white top that looked like something Joan Redfern might have worn beneath her dresses; it was light and lacy, a bit frilly with cute little fabric-covered buttons.

”Hi,” he said, smiling like a nervous teenager. Surely, his face mirrored hers. He held out the bottle for her. ”I hope you’ll like this.”

Rose looked briefly at the label. ”It’s perfect. I’ll just pop it into the fridge. Why don’t you come through?”

They rounded the wall that hid the elevator door and the coat rack from view, and he followed her to the kitchen. When he’d visited in the early afternoon he hadn’t really paid attention to her flat. All that had registered was that it was spacious, bright and well-appointed. Apparently, Rose hadn’t used an interior designer who’d have turned her place stylish but sterile. Like something you would see in a glossy magazine.

”You’ve got a lovely flat,” he said.

Rose laughed. She got a wine glass out of one of the cabinets. He took the glass from her and put it on the granite countertop. Her smile faded from her lips when she saw the intensity of his gaze. She gripped the edge of the counter.

”What’s happened?” he asked softly.

”Nothing so far. Apart from the fact that I broke our Rule,” she said. ”And you dropped everything and came to see me.”

Peter smiled. She was right. Nothing had happened, and yet a lot had changed. ”Do you want me to go?” It was funny how half an hour and finally seeing lupamala, Rose, put his reaction to her revelation into a more sober light. He shouldn’t really be here. He’d promised himself that he wouldn't make the Blackpool mistake again.

”It might be the wiser move, I suppose,” she said.

His heart dropped. Of course she was right.

”But I don’t want you to go,” she added. She picked up the glass and took his hand to pull him out onto the rooftop garden. Although it wasn’t bathed in sunlight any more, the sun shade was still open to trap the warmth radiating off the wooden floor so they’d be comfortable for a while longer. Rose had set the small table with a few nibbles to go with the wine and bread. There were several lanterns and candle sticks he hadn’t noticed that afternoon, and he was looking forward to seeing them lit as darkness descended. Of course, the ambient light from the city around them would ensure that it didn’t get completely dark, but candle light was so much more intimate.

He tightened his grip around Rose’s fingers to make her look at him. He bent to kiss her lips lightly, and maybe he lingered a few heartbeats longer than was wise at the moment. He really shouldn’t be kissing her, not so soon. But he felt as if he really did know her, and perhaps he did. They had been writing to each other for over a year throughout which he had the impression that, despite or perhaps because of the pseudonym, she’d not been masking herself. That she appreciated the chance to be herself, even in that anonymity.

Touching her made his body tingle all over, and he knew that he was going to stay for breakfast. Rose’s lips were soft and supple, and once they tensed beneath his to return the gesture, they became firm, and tempting. But he didn’t want to rush things even more.

”I’m a cheap date,” she said, gesturing at the food. ”And I’ve already had some wine.” There was an earthenware wine bucket on the table, covered with a tea towel to trap the cold. She went to fill his glass, and he took a seat across from her, accepting the glass. They toasted each other and sipped the cold, fruity drink. It was dry and just a bit sour, and he loved it.

”Are you afraid we’re going to ruin what we have?” she asked.

”In a way, yes. I always looked forward to your emails. I’ll miss that now,” he said. Then he leaned forward and reached across the table to take her hand. ”But I think it’s a fair price to pay. We’ll be able to share so much more now.”

Rose’s smile widened. ”I feel the same.”

“How did you make the connection between PB and me?” Peter asked.

“Your email about last night, and the fact that PB mentioned he was the spitting image of John Smith,” she said, shrugging. It was pretty obvious. You didn’t need sherlock Holmes to figure that one out.

For a while, they said nothing. It was an awkward moment because due to the nature of their conversation they weren't used to sharing silence, so Peter decided to turn the conversation to the harmless topic they wanted to discuss most. ”I’m not sure what to expect,” Peter said after he’d eaten a few olives. ”From my meeting with Verity tomorrow.”

”What strikes me is that she was so ready to talk to you,” Rose said.

”She’s as intrigued as I am,” he said. He propped his chin up on his hand. ”Come to think of it, she even seemed anxious to meet me.”

”What?”

”There was a slight tremble in her voice. As if she’d expected my request sooner or later.” He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but as he explained it to Rose now, it suddenly hit him.

”Why? Is she afraid of being discovered as a fraud?” Rose asked.

”No, no, I don’t think so. It was more like… well, it wasn’t like that,” he said.

”I suppose we’ll have to wait for answers until tomorrow,” Rose said. ”How far have you got reading the book?”

”Not terribly far, I’m afraid,” he said. ”John Smith is about to show Joan his diary.”

”That’s a bit ahead of me, I think. Why don’t you fill me in, and then I’ll read to you about his diary?” Rose suggested.

Peter’s heart skipped a beat. No woman had ever offered to read to him. The idea of her reading to him was at once touching and sexy.

”You’d have to tell me where you are,” he said, unconsciously dropping his voice a notch.

”His first day of school.”

”Well, let’s see,” Peter said, ruffling his hair. When he looked at Rose he noted how transfixed she seemed by the gesture. He dropped his hand .

”You’ve got really great hair,” she blurted, slapping her hand over her mouth as soon as the words had left it.

He smiled sheepishly. His hair was okay, a bit wilful sometimes. ”You won’t miss much. I’m taking notes while I’m reading. It slows me down, and it feels a bit like reading a textbook, but this way I can remember things better. Occupational hazard, I suppose,” he said. ”Now I can tell you.”

”You haven’t made it to DCI for nothing,” Rose quipped but grew serious. 

”No, I suppose I haven’t.”

”Why would a DCI take on my case?” she asked. It was the one question about the case she hadn’t asked that afternoon.

”My team were busy, and I like to sink my teeth into a case of my own every now and again. Being the DCI has its perks — I get to choose which ones,” he said.

”Was it — gosh, this will sound so self-important — was it because it was me?”

Peter had wondered about that several times, but he couldn’t really answer that question. In part, yes, but it was also because Greg Lestrade had asked him directly. Strictly speaking, the Jolly Roger case was a case for the abduction unit he was in charge of, rather than the major incident team. ”A little bit, maybe. Celebrity cases tend to attract a lot of attention. And the internal review team.”

Rose laughed. 

”But it’s also because I want to understand what makes blokes like Travis tick.”

”And, do you?”

He shrugged, dropping his hand to reach for his wine. ”No, I’m not sure. I mean, you are a fascinating, attractive woman, but how can your fans ever begin to think they know you — I mean, really know you? Surely, you’re playing a part for the general public.”

”Yeah, I am. Most of the time. But isn’t that what all of us do? Separate our private lives from our professional ones? Look at you. You’re completely different when you’re on duty,” she said.

Her statement shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. 

”So. John Smith,” Rose said, sensing his unease.

”Ah, yes. Well,” Peter said. He began to recount the events up to the point where he’d stopped reading.

After he finished, Rose gave him a box of long matches. He hadn’t noticed that it had got dark. It must be quite late already, and he suddenly felt tired. ”You light the candles, I’ll get the book,” she instructed him.

Suppressing a yawn, he set to work. While he was lighting the candles in the lanterns he peered over the tops of the potted plants and out over the city. The lights from the bankside buildings glittered in the murky water of the Thames, and below Rose’s building people ambled along the promenade, chatting and laughing, enjoying the warm night and some drinks and food from the many stalls that had been put up. 

Being up here felt like a completely different world. The potted plants insulated the place as well as secluded it. Peter had a small, walled-in garden badly in need of care, but he just couldn’t make the time. If he did, he was sure he’d have just as beautiful an oasis as Rose's. Although he could afford a gardener, or at least the help of one, he’d appreciate the garden more if he worked on it himself.

”Hey.” Rose’s soft words brought him back to reality. She had joined him with the book in hand, looking more beautiful than ever in the warm, flickering candle light. More than anything, Peter wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to get to know her in an entirely different way.

”Are you all right?” she asked.

He tossed the box of matches onto the table. The plates were nearly empty, and they were on their second, and third, glasses of wine. Nevertheless, he trusted her to stop him.

”Rose,” he said, his voice hitching. He didn’t want her to read to him. Not now, anyway. He closed the distance between them and tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. It was something he’d wanted to do the whole evening. ”I’d really like to kiss you.”

Rose looked at him. ”Please do.”

He took the book from her and dropped it onto the seat of her chair. Then he took her now free hand and tugged her towards him. She tilted her head backwards in anticipation, and their lips met for a kiss. It was chaste, to give them a feel of each other, but then Peter began to move his mouth against hers and she opened up for him, meeting his tongue as he slid it into her. 

She stepped closer to him and draped her arm around his shoulder for purchase. Peter shuddered with pleasure when she pressed her body against his, and he felt himself harden instantly. He’d been wanting her all night. It was a miracle how well he’d been able to pull himself together. But not any more. Rose returned his kiss with ardour, but she also managed to slow him down somewhat.

He was growing breathless quickly and pulled away from her, resting his forehead against hers. He laughed giddily.

”I’ve wanted to kiss you again all night,” Rose said.

”Me too.”

”What is it with the two of us? It all feels so easy, so natural. And we don’t really know each other,” Rose wondered.

He reached between them to quieten her with his fingers on her lips. ”We _do_ know each other. We’ll just have to reconcile Peter with PB and Rose with lupamala.”

They kissed again, for a length of time, completely oblivious to the world around them. There was no way Rose couldn’t feel his erection pressing into her lower abdomen, not when he felt her pebbled nipples against his chest. He cupped her cheek to guide her a little as he kept exploring her mouth. The taste of wine on her tongue had long since gone, and he could taste pure Rose. Her hands were hot against the material of his shirt. She rubbed his back in lazy circles, pulling him towards her as if they could become one this way. Surely, it was too soon for that. Shouldn’t they wait? 

”Peter,” Rose gasped eventually.

”Aye?” He started kissing a line along her jaw to taste the side of her neck and to find out if she had a special spot there.

”I want you,” she whispered.

Peter stilled. The blood was rushing in his ears and he wasn’t sure he had heard what he thought had heard or if his mind was playing a trick on him. He pulled away from her. ”What?”

”I know it’s… soon. But I… I want you. I want to make love to you,” she said, giving him another searching glance.

He wondered briefly if this was a test. Could he pass? He had to. He knew already that he couldn’t lose her. ”Do ye?”

Instead of a reply, she kissed him again. Her hands wandered down the sides of his torso and she began to tug at his shirt so she could slip her hands underneath it and feel his skin. He wanted her to.

He sighed softly as she finally touched him, her hands even warmer now, and oh so soft on his lower back. He pushed his pelvis against her, letting her know that he was very interested as well.

”I want you too, Rose,” he whispered eventually. ”So much.”

”Then let’s take this inside,” she said, taking his hand to lead him, once again, to her bedroom this time. It was a spacious place, opening onto the rooftop garden as well. He’d been sitting with his back to it, so he had been unaware of the wide open French doors. Rose pushed aside the gauzy curtain as they stepped inside. The warmth of the indoors was almost overwhelming. ”Close the doors, would you?” she said, letting go of his hand.

”The candles.”

She made a face. ”Hurry!”

When he returned with the wine and their glasses, she had lit the small lamps on either side of her bed. The room was so spacious that it could easily accommodate a large fourposter bed without looking crowded. It was a beautiful, antique bed, with vines carved into the dark wood. 

Rose took the glasses from him, and after they had set them and the wine cooler down on the empty bedside table, they began to kiss again. Peter backed her against the bed, and, placing a knee between hers, he began to lower them onto the silver green duvet, supporting her with an arm wrapped around her back. 

He kissed down her neck and began to explore the curve of her collarbones and the tops of her breasts with his mouth as he ran his hands along the sides of her body. She was still rubbing his back, but when he reached the edge of her top, she slid her hands into his hair to gently guide his ministrations. A pleasant shudder coursed through him at her touch. He began to fumble with the buttons of her top, working them open, revealing more and more of her skin for him to kiss and nibble. He brushed the satin of her bra aside to taste her breast, swirled his tongue around the hardened nipple.

Rose sighed and pushed her breast against him for more. He would have smiled, but her taste and feel was just so good. ”Peter,” Rose whispered.

”Aye?” he looked up at her.

She smiled at him. ”Don’t stop.”

”Wasn’t going to,” he said.

”Good.”

She pushed his shirt up his body, and he helped her pull it over his head. It landed somewhere on the floor. He had rolled onto his side, and Rose mirrored him, exploring his chest with her hands. She ran her fingers through the hair lining his sternum and dusting his pectorals. Then she slid her hand over his shoulder and pulled him towards her for another kiss.

He managed to open the last button of her top and brushed the garment down her shoulder and arm. Then he reached around her to open her bra, but he couldn’t find the clasp.

”It opens at the front,” Rose whispered, the tip of her tongue peeping from the corner of her mouth. 

He hummed in appreciation as Rose lay back to grant him access. He undid the clasp and brushed the cups aside, looking at her breasts. They fit perfectly inside his palms, and as he bent to suckle at one nipple, he played with the other with his fingers, rolling it between them. Rose responded with moans and whisperings of his name.

”Take off my trousers,” Rose said. ”Please, Peter.”

He obeyed happily, and he took her knickers along with them as well. Rose hadn’t worn shoes or socks on such a hot day, not in her own flat. Without grace or subtlety he kissed the swell of her mons, pushing his hand up her torso to keep her still. The heady smell of her arousal filled his nostrils. There was only so much foreplay they needed tonight. Their need for each other, to become one, was overwhelmingly strong. 

He kissed the crease of her groin, and Rose promptly opened her legs for him, revealing her damp sex to him. He began to kiss her there, mapping her hills and valleys first before he delved in to taste her. 

Rose cried out his name when he touched her clit with his tongue. 

He’d had no idea she was so close already. He decided he wanted to see her come, this first time, to find out what she liked. He needed to know. As he explored her further, her hands returned to his hair. She bucked into him when he pushed a finger inside her. Again, a gurgled version of his name. He had to push down on her stomach to keep her still.

For a few moments, he slowed his ministrations, turning his attention to the soft skin of the insides of her thighs. A second finger joined the first. She was incredibly warm and tight, and he could fell how close she was; her muscles were rippling around his fingers.

”Come for me, Rose,” he whispered, looking up. Brushing the pad of his thumb over her clit, he watched her. A sheen of sweat coated her skin, making it glow beautifully in the warm lamplight. She came quickly, and hard, arching off the bed, letting out a strangled cry. Peter let go of her, and, wiping his mouth, he crawled up her body to hold her. Her face was a mask of pure bliss. She dropped onto the duvet in a boneless, panting heap, but she turned towards him immediately, burrowing into him. His arms went around her, and he got the idea that this wasn’t just about the need for a cuddle. Rose needed to feel safe. He whispered to her softly, reassuring her that he was there for her, that he had her and wouldn’t let go of her.

How soft her skin was, how fragrant.

Eventually, she began to stir.

”You all right?” he asked.

”Yeah. Thank you,” she croaked.

He brushed errant locks off her face where they were sticking to her skin. ”You are gorgeous when you come,” he said.

Rose blushed. ”You didn’t come,” she said eventually. ”Let me remedy that.”

”I’m all right.” He really was. 

”You don’t want me to?”

”I do want you to. But you seem exhausted.”

”So do you.”

He chuckled. ”Aye, that’s because I am. We’d have to take it slowly. Rock each other to sleep.”

Rose smiled. ”I’d like that.”

”Let me get a condom first,” he said.

”Someone’s been planning this.”

”Not planning. Hoping. Also, I like to be well-prepared,” he said.

She kissed the tip of his nose. ”All right then.”

He got off the bed, looking at Rose. His heart constricted. He couldn’t believe he’d just made love to her. To Rose Tyler. ”You’re beautiful.”

She smiled coyly. ”You’re not half-bad yourself.”

He fished the foil packets out of his pocket before dropping his jeans and pants. His cock wasn’t as hard any more as it had been. He was about to touch himself when Rose sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed, reaching for him. 

She took him in her mouth without warning. He’d thought she’d just stroke him, but instead he was in her warm, wet mouth, and she was swirling her tongue around him, pressing its length against him. He was hard in an instant, and he said her name, several times, to stop her. 

Rose let go of him, her grin a mixture of sheepishness and mischief. ”Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”

”Another time, aye?” He rolled a condom down his length, then joined Rose on the bed. She had stretched out on her side and he lay facing her, reaching down for the back of her knee as he began to kiss her. Draping her leg over his hip, he pushed his hips forward. Rose guided him and helped him slide into her. Maybe it would have been a better idea to do this with him on top, but he was exhausted and wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it enjoyable for her.

He groaned as he sheathed himself inside her. He couldn’t go very deep, but going by Rose’s reaction it was perfect for the moment. It must have been a while for her. So gentleness it was. Peter pushed slowly into her, giving both of them time to get used to each other and to savour the feeling of becoming one.

It was like coming home.

”Rose,” he whispered. ”Oh Rose. You’re wonderful.”

When he could go no further, they rested for a while. ”Are you all right?” she asked.

”Oh aye,” he said. ”You?”

”I feel very full. But it’s good. I love it. I — please, Peter, make love to me.”

It took them a few moments to work out and establish a rhythm that worked for both of them, but eventually they settled into a rocking motion. Rose reached between them to touch herself. They kissed slowly and looked into each other’s eyes until Rose began to squeeze around him. ”I’m close, Peter.”

He’d been holding back a while to give her a chance to come, so he began to pick up the speed a little. Rose arched into him, squeezing her eyes shut and moaning as another wave of pleasure rolled over her, sweeping her away into a place of weightlessness and white starry skies.

A few more thrusts, and he followed her, his cheek cupped in her hand, her voice whispering something, probably words of encouragement. She pulled him close with her fingers on his bum and back. 

”Rose!” he shouted as he, too, was swept away, his cock at its hardest, releasing into her. She was all around him, her warmth, her touch, her voice. He thought that he loved her already, that he had fallen for her and with her, but he was conscious of only one thought. That he was with her, that he had made love to her. And that it was amazing.


	10. Ten

Ten

Cause I love her with all that I am  
And my voice shakes along with my hands  
Cause it's frightening to be swimming in this strange sea  
But I'd rather be here than on land  
— Stephen Speaks, _Out of My League_

When they finally left the flat the next morning, they were almost running late. Breakfast had been lazy, punctuated by making love and lots of kissing. Stepping outside was like leaving their own little bubble and returning to the real world. Rose tightened her grip around Peter’s hand. He had called Verity to ask if she minded if he brought a friend. She didn’t.

Rose had raised an eyebrow when he referred to her as _a friend_ , but she soon understood the wisdom of that. He could hardly call her his lover, and it was too early to use my girlfriend. It occurred to her that they had a lot to discuss yet, so _a friend_ she was Besides, he'd not said her name, to avoid making Verity uncomfortable at the prospect of having someone famous round. Truth be told, Rose a bit nervous about meeting a writer.

The cab picked them up in the sheltered driveway of the building. There was no danger of paps spotting them. Ever since Friday night, the interest of the media in her life had increased, so she was glad that the building offered that kind of privacy. Also, it wouldn’t be a good idea for Peter to be seen with her when he was off duty, at least not until after the trial. Verity’s suggestion to meet at her house had been a good one, aside from being more discreet, it also meant that it would be easier to show them the source materials for the book.

Peter handed Rose into the car, slid inside the cool dimness after her, and the cabbie pulled out of the driveway and into the Sunday noon traffic. They didn’t speak, but they communicated with occasional squeezes of their hands and looks. Both of them were very nervous about meeting the author.

Besides, the events of the previous night and the morning were beginning to sink in. They had taken their time that morning to get to know each other, not only physically but emotionally as well, and by now Rose felt pleasantly sore. She hadn’t slept with a man since she and Mickey split up shortly after her return, and while the night with Irene had been great, it just hadn’t been the same.

She looked at Peter. He face was covered lightly by stubble, and he smelled faintly of her shower gel. It was a faint smell because she didn’t like strongly perfumed soap, but it was there. Maybe it was only her. Anyway. He looked gorgeous. The summer sun had brought out the freckles in his face, and when he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled. And then, of course, there was his gorgeous hair. Rose loved running her fingers through it as they made love.

Their journey complete, they found themselves in a quiet neighbourhood of Victorian homes that were set back from the tree-lined street. Peter helped her out of the car but didn’t take her hand. Rose wiggled her fingers to shake off the feeling of emptiness.

Verity must have been waiting for them, for she opened the door before they had reached it. She stared at them as they approached her. Surely, she hadn’t expected Peter to look quite as much like John Smith as he did. When Verity spotted her trailing behind Peter, her eyes widened again in recognition, just like Rose had expected. 

”I’m Peter,” he said, and, indicating her, ”and this is my friend, Rose.”

”I’m Verity,” she replied, recovering from her shock. ”Come in. I've been sitting in the garden. It’s such a lovely day.” She was wearing a light summer dress like Rose, and, like Rose, she had swept her blonde hair up to keep the back of her neck cool. Verity looked exactly like she did in the author photograph on the back inside flap of the dustcover.

They followed her through the house and into the garden. It was pleasantly cool there, thanks to the many old trees providing natural shade. A file folder and two cardboard boxes were laid out on the table, along with some biscuits and what turned out to be homemade lemonade.

”I’m sorry, I must come across unbelievably rude,” Verity said, gesturing for them to sit. ”It’s not every day that one meets the spitting images of people from one-hundred year-old photographs.”

”Don’t worry about it,” Peter said, smiling.

Rose frowned. Why had she used the plural to refer to Peter?

After a brief conversation as they shared some lemonade and biscuits, Verity opened one of the boxes. It contained several old photographs. ”Somehow I’ve never managed to stick them into an album. One of these days, I will. Hopefully.”

John Smith’s photo was on top of the pile, and she took it out for Peter to inspect. ”I’m afraid the quality of the photo is better in the book, but I thought you’d like to see the original. Just to make sure,” she explained.

”Aye, thank you,” Peter said. The photo looked and felt genuine. He passed it on to Rose. She turned it over to read the inscription pencilled on the back: _John Smith, 1913._

”This is Joan, my great-grandmother,” Verity said as she gave Peter another photo, this one was stuck on thick cardboard. It had been taken in a studio, and it was the one that was in the book. If Rose hadn’t known better, she’d have said it was an artfully aged photo of Verity in period clothing and hairstyle. But she knew from own experience that blending in in period costume was easier said than done, and it seemed a lot of trouble to go to, even for a book. And, frankly, the photo looked genuine. Even if Verity had posed as her great-grandmother, that didn’t explain why Peter looked like John Smith.

”Have you finished the book?” Verity asked.

”I’m afraid not, no,” Peter said.

Verity bit her lip and nodded. She opened the other cardboard box and removed a leather-bound book from it. ”This is John’s journal,” she said. It was tied closed with a leather strap, which Verity untangled. As she thumbed through the book, Rose saw yellowed, brittle pages with untidy writing and many sketches, but Verity was flipping the pages so fast Rose couldn’t make out any details. Eventually, Verity had found what she’d been looking for and passed the journal to Rose.

Surprised, Rose accepted the book, and stared. There, on the page, was an ink portrait of her, or at least half her portrait, surrounded by the word _rose_ and, over and over again, the phrases _in my dreams she keeps walking away_ and _she will not answer me_. The words bled into her portrait, so Rose couldn’t tell what had come first, her face or the words. 

_I know her well._

On the left side of the double spread, John had sketched roses, desperate to find a perfect rose, his perfect rose, and that he asks this girl in his dreams for one, but she keeps walking away.

”Rose? Are you all right?” Peter asked, touching her bare arm in concern.

”This is…”

”Go backwards one page,” Verity said gently.

Rose did, and there she found eight faces of eight different men on the right, and two faces of yet two more different men on the left. She didn’t recognise any of the eight faces, but she knew the other two very well. One was Peter, and the other was the Doctor.

Rose looked up. ”It’s the Doctor.”

”Who?” Peter asked.

”Look!” Rose said, pointing out the man with the close-cropped hair, the prominent nose and big ears. ”He’s the man… he’s… I’ve told you about him.”

Peter’s eyes widened. ”But why is he in John’s journal? It can’t possibly…”

”He travels in time,” Rose said softly. There was no doubt now that Verity's story was true. But the certainty came with a host of unanswered questions.

”What?” Peter asked, looking from her to Verity and back. 

Verity, bless her, nodded. 

”I think I should explain this to Peter,” Rose said. ”But answer me this first: How are John and the Doctor connected?”

Verity gave her a look that made it clear she’d thought Rose knew. But what was it she was supposed to know? ”John _is_ the Doctor,” Verity explained, looking from Rose to Peter and back.

”What? No! _This_ is the Doctor!” Rose said, pointing at the Doctor in the journal.

”May I?” Verity asked, holding her hand out for the journal. Peter gave it to her, and again she looked for something in the book. The page she stopped at had another portrait of John, and the writing was clearly legible: _I am a lord of time_. In the sketch, the Doctor was wearing a pinstriped suit and a tie, and a long coat.

”Now go back and try to read what it says on the Ten Faces spread — that’s what I call it anyway,” Verity said.

Rose and Peter pored over the page, and between them they deciphered most of the words. ”I keep changing,” they whispered, ”I can… see?… myself clearly in so many different faces. I am lots of different people. I may have played cricket for England!” Rose stifled a sob that might have come out as a laugh, or was it the other way round?

”So… does that mean that he… can change his body? Like a shapeshifter?” Peter asked.

”Not quite. He explained it to Joan once. Apparently, when he was mortally wounded or ill, he, because he’s a Time Lord, that’s what he called himself, changes into a new body. He calls it regenerating. When he met Joan, he had regenerated nine times.” She pointed at the faces on the right page. ”These are the faces he had before he looked the way he did when you met him, Rose, and this is how he looked when he met Joan.”

Rose stared at Peter. This was the first time she heard anything about regenerating. How was that possible? What had made the Doctor regenerate? And when?

”It’s what he looked like when I met him,” Verity said. ”That’s why I was so baffled by seeing you, Peter.”

They both turned their attention to her. ”I saw the Doctor at the book signing. He came up to me and asked me to sign his copy. He looked like you, Peter, but… unbelievably sad. And weary,” she explained.

”When was that?” Rose asked.

”Two years ago, when the book was first published. He asked me if Joan was happy in the end.”

”And? Was she?”

”Yes. He loved her, you know. The Doctor loved Joan, but because he made an unforgivable mistake Joan didn’t go with him when it was over,” Verity said. ”She just couldn’t forgive him. It broke her heart. He broke her heart, but she just couldn’t bear the idea that so many innocent people — mostly children — had died because he had decided to hide from aliens in Farringham of all places. On a whim.”

”Oh,” Rose gasped. Poor Doctor. But she sympathised with Joan. Rose was sure that he had beaten himself up after that for quite a while. He would have carried on, putting the past behind him. But he would not have forgotten. Depending on who was travelling with him.

”Was he travelling alone at the time?” Rose asked.

”No. A woman called Donna Noble was with him. It was her job to make sure that he remained John for as long as the alien threat lasted,” Verity answered. “He had hidden his consciousness in a fob watch and changed from a two-hearted Time Lord from Gallifrey into the human John Smith to protect himself.”

”I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” Peter said, looking genuinely puzzled and a bit frustrated.

”I’ll explain everything to you later, yeah?” Rose said, taking his hand. She didn’t care if Verity saw. Rose was pretty sure she was perceptive enough to have figured it out already. Besides, she had just discovered a far bigger secret. ”Just let me get some answers. Please?”

”All right, love,” he said, squeezing her hand and smiling reassuringly at her. ”But does this mean that this is a true story?”

Rose and Verity nodded as one. ”It’s my great-grandmother’s story. I had her diary and the Doctor’s journal to reconstruct her story. Unfortunately she died when I was five years old. So I have some questions as well. If you don’t mind,” Verity said.

”No, it’s only fair that you get some answers too, but I’m not sure I’ll be much of a help. I stopped travelling with the Doctor before he changed,” Rose said.

”Why did you stop travelling with him?” she asked. Peter squeezed her hand in a comforting gesture, but it was obvious he wanted to know that as well.

”Well. I made a mistake,” Rose began, and she told them the short version of the events that had led to her return home. Rose didn’t tell them about the heart of the TARDIS, though, partly because she didn’t remember it very clearly and partly because she still didn’t understand what had happened, what she had done wrong. It was good to tell it again, and to tell it to someone who didn't know the Doctor. She made sure to look at Verity and Peter to anchor herself as she lost herself in her memories. Peter held her hand throughout, which made it much easier to do. But even as she told them, she still couldn’t begin to understand what she had done wrong. She had saved the Doctor’s life and returned his TARDIS to him. It was lucky that they had the journal so they were able to show Peter the Doctor’s sketches of the wondrous ship.

”Maybe it has to do with looking into the heart of his ship,” Peter suggested. ”I’m sure that you saw something you weren’t supposed to see. You said you don’t have any memory of exactly what happened, didn’t you?”

Rose nodded thoughtfully.

”It’s probably that. It sounds to me like he was protecting you. It must have been either something terrible,” Peter said, ”or something that just isn’t for humans to see.”

”Yeah, maybe,” Rose said with little conviction. 

”I suppose the only way to find out is to ask him,” Verity said.

”I haven’t seen him in over six years, although I’m sure that there have been several events on Earth lately that bore his signature,” Rose said. ”But I suppose he doesn’t pop round for a visit with former companions. I wasn’t the first human he travelled with. He’s fascinated by us.”

”I’m sure he had very good reasons for leaving you behind,” Peter said. 

”Since Peter has so many questions, why don’t you take the journal? You can have it for as long as you want,” Verity said, checking her watch. ”I’m afraid Toby and the kids will be back soon. I hadn’t noticed how fast the time has passed.”

”I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time,” Rose said, embarrassed. 

”Oh, don’t be. It was very educational for me. I was hoping we could meet again,” Verity said.

”To answer your questions,” Rose reminded herself. ”Of course. I would love that.”

They wrapped the journal in tissue paper before returning it to its box. They chatted for a while as they waited for the cab that would take Rose and Peter back to the city.

Peter was very quiet on the ride back, and it occurred to Rose that she had just assumed that he would come back to her place. Maybe he was he just being a gentleman and seeing her safely home? ”Would you like to join me for some pasta?” she asked.

He nodded absentmindedly. Rose began to worry about him, and when they finally stepped out on the rooftop garden, she couldn’t take it any more. ”Peter? Please talk to me.”

His reply was a fierce kiss. It was bruising, and Rose wrapped her arms around him, desperate to stay on her feet. The box containing the journal clattered to the wooden floor. Peter drew her towards him as though he wanted to pull her inside him. Eventually, when they grew breathless, he softened the kiss a little, brushing her bruised lips tenderly with his own. ”I’m sorry, Rose,” he said.

”What for?” Her heart was hammering in her chest, and she was afraid of his next words. Was this goodbye? Had they ruined everything after all?

”It’s been an intense day,” he began. He traced the line of her lips with his fingers. 

”Would you like to go home? To get some time on your own? To think?” Rose suggested, hoping that by offering him an out he’d not feel bad about it. She was terrified of losing him, of course, but she trusted him and she had to do this for him.

”I’d like some time to myself, yes,” he said. ”But I don’t want to go back to mine.”

”Oh.”

”Cooking helps. Would you mind if I cooked for you?”

Rose blinked. ”Not at all.”

”You do… whatever it is you normally do on a Sunday afternoon. I’ll be fine after a guided tour round the kitchen and your larder.”

”My… larder,” Rose repeated. She laughed, cupping his cheek. ”I’m afraid it’s not much of a larder, unless you want to make a cake.”

”I’ll pop to the shops and pick up anything I need,” he said. ”But I can’t stay the night.”

”That’s all right,” she said. They kissed a lot more slowly this time. ”You never mentioned that cooking is your way of coping. Most people lose their appetite when they’re upset.”

”I turn the nervous energy into something creative. And I thought that my way to your heart might lead through your stomach,” he said, kissing her cheek.

”That’s the scenic route,” Rose replied. She wanted to add that he’d already found the way to her heart, but if she wasn’t ready to say it, he probably wasn’t ready to hear it. It couldn’t hurt to slow things down a bit.

Rose sat down with John’s — the Doctor’s — journal and began to work through it methodically, transcribing his messy thoughts onto her tablet so she could send a copy to Peter later. Verity had also copied the journal, but Rose needed to do it herself. She wanted to find out what had happened to the Doctor after he had left her behind. Most of all, she wanted to know what had made him regenerate. She didn’t really expect to find too much. Clearly The Doctor’s memories were beginning to bleed through into John’s consciousness by appearing in his dreams. The question was how much had gotten through. She didn’t want to get her hopes up.

She heard Peter potter around in the kitchen, and once or twice he came out to ask her where he could find a particular utensil. He brought her a glass wine, and, when she checked on him a little while later, she was glad to see that he had poured himself some wine too and was sipping it as he worked. He had tucked a tea towel into the waistband of his jeans to wipe his hands and to use as a potholder. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, baring his forearms. ”The scenic route to my heart indeed,” she murmured, smiling, as she stood just inside the French doors.


	11. Eleven

Eleven

The stars conspired to bring me here, on a day like this;  
The sun beats down upon my pride, like a wounded star.

What did you want from me?  
Why did you bring me here?  
I'm facing my foolish fate, oh  
I'm too high, too close to the sun;  
I'm too high, my curious Icarus wings melt from my skin.  
— Tom Baxter, _Icarus Wings_

On Monday John had a call from Rose Tyler. He turned around in his chair, _The Guardian_ almost sliding off his lap, to look at his friend. Sherlock was bent over one of his experiments at the kitchen table, his attention focused on something he saw in the microscope, totally oblivious, as always, to anything going on around him in the flat. Or so it seemed.

“How can I help you, Miss Tyler?” John asked. He noticed that his heart was thumping. It wasn’t every day that you received a call from Rose Tyler. If he was honest with himself he’d been waiting for a call from her. People usually got in touch after the case was solved to say thank you, although most of them were happy just to talk to him and have him pass on their regards to Sherlock. He wasn’t one to be easily impressed by celebrity, but Rose Tyler was special. She seemed to genuinely care, and she’d been very composed and brave on Friday night. John wondered if that had been just a mask she’d put on. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I am, thank you. I’d like to thank you and Mr Holmes in person. For your help with my case,” Rose said.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” John said. _You and Mr Holmes_. He adjusted the newspaper on his lap and turned to sit facing the window. “Why don’t you come round to the flat?”

She’d be able to leave quickly if the tension was unbearable, plus there wouldn’t be any obligation to stay and make small talk, like she might they met in public.

“When would it be convenient for you?” she asked, sounding tense and coolly professional. She had been very tense at the grand opening too, but had managed to act warmly towards the people she met. Was she tense now because of meeting Sherlock or was she showing her true colours? John feared it was the former. 

“Any time is fine, really. We’re just wrapping things up,” he replied.

“I’ll give you a ring just before I leave. I’m in a meeting this afternoon and it’s one of those that are either short or interminably long,” Rose said, infusing her voice with more warmth. 

“Sounds good. See you later then,” John said and rang off. 

“I suppose she’s coming round later today? After one of her _meetings_?” Sherlock said, sneering at the last word. Startled, John looked up. Sherlock was standing close by, gazing down at him. Of course. He should have known that Sherlock’s interest in Rose Tyler would remain keen until he could figure out what the relationship was between her and the Doctor. What annoyed John was the fact that he hadn’t noticed Sherlock sliding off his stool to stand next to him to eavesdrop on his conversation with Rose Tyler. 

“Yes,” John said, tipping his head back to look at Sherlock. “Do try to be civil to her.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sherlock asked.

John did a double-take. “What?”

“Why wouldn’t I be civil to her?”

“Well,” John began.

“I have some questions for her. It wouldn’t do to upset her, would it?”

 _It would have absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she’s Irene Adler’s friend?_ John wanted to ask but bit his lip. “You might find that treating people with a modicum of politeness will get you what you want,” John advised. He didn’t dare say ‘respect’. There was very little Sherlock respected.

“Confronting them usually gets me what I want a lot faster. People tend to rise to the bait when they are accused,” Sherlock explained.

“And what do you want to confront Rose Tyler with?” John asked. “She hasn’t done anything wrong by being in the company of the Doctor. He’s not a villain. He’s saved a lot of people’s lives.” Sherlock had outlined his findings on the Doctor the day before, and, if anything, you could accuse the Doctor of a perverse kind of hit-and-run — of not staying to be thanked for what he did. Or maybe of not staying to answer all the questions people had. Or, most likely, to avoid the hero-worship they would heap on him. God knew Sherlock hated it, although he was more of an anti-hero. He didn’t need the worship because it only confirmed what he already knew about the others: they were too stupid to deal with mysteries themselves. He didn’t need them to tell him he’d done a good job; he was very well aware of it. The chastisement after he’d figured out what was behind Operation Bond-Air had only humbled him for so long. 

“He’s a mystery I can’t solve,” Sherlock replied.

“Maybe it’s one of those mysteries that aren’t meant to be solved, hmm?” John asked. 

Sherlock snorted, telling him not to be ridiculous. 

-:-

Apparently, Miss Tyler’s meeting was one of the shorter ones, for she phoned them in the early afternoon to let them know that she was on her way. Sherlock put the kettle on and began tidying the cluttered sofa as soon as John told him that Rose had called. John watched him with a raised eyebrow but didn’t comment.

“What?” Sherlock asked, straightening with a pile of magazines in his hands.

“Nothing,” John said innocently.

“Then stop doing that,” Sherlock growled.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No.”

“You’re doing that disapproving John-face. Most people would reserve it for misbehaving children,” Sherlock explained.

John frowned. “Look, Sherlock. You’re falling all over yourself for Miss Tyler’s visit. She isn’t here about a new case —“ John interrupted himself. “Or is it? Do you really think of the Doctor as a case?”

Sherlock dropped the stack of magazines in one of the cardboard boxes by the door, a box John had never touched. 

“Well, I’ll just sit back and enjoy the show then, shall I?” he asked, shrugging. The kettle clicked off and whistled. He watched in growing amazement as Sherlock hurried to haul out the good china and prepare the tea in an actual pot, rather than just throwing three tea bags into mismatched mugs. His sense of timing was impeccable of course.

John went downstairs to open the door for Miss Tyler, who had announced her arrival with a knock on the door. Since Mrs Hudson was out, it was his job to invite their guest in. As he opened the door, Miss Tyler smiled ruefully. “Hello, Doctor Watson. There are paps across the street,” she said. “Do you mind?”

He stepped aside at once. “Do come in,” he said. “Right pest they are.” He wondered how they could possibly know when things were getting interesting amidst the usual daily noise of Baker Street. 

“Thanks,” she said, smiling widely. John must admit that the press were right when they described it as charming and winning. He also had a feeling that this was the real thing, rather than Rose Tyler’s public smile.

“We’re upstairs,” he said, gesturing for her to precede him up the narrow staircase. John couldn’t help watching her bum in her skinny short trousers for a blink or two before he focused his eyes on the rough weave of the carpet.

“Miss Tyler,” Sherlock said in a friendly tone he used when he needed to win someone over.

“Mr Holmes,” Miss Tyler said.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Sherlock said. “I hope I wasn’t wrong to presume you’d share a cup of tea with us?”

Rose smiled nervously. “That’s very kind. Maybe if I could have a glass of water first? The cab was really stuffy,” she said.

“Of course,” Sherlock said and hurried to get the water himself. John raised an eyebrow, a gesture Miss Tyler caught and met with a mischievous smile.

“I just wanted to say thank you for all the help you provided with my _case_ ,” she said after everyone was settled.

“Oh, it was a pleasure,” Sherlock replied. He poured each of them a cup of tea after he’d topped up Miss Tyler’s glass of water as well, leaving it to John to take care of the small talk.

“I’ve been wondering about Irene,” Miss Tyler said eventually. John had sensed that Sherlock was nearing the end of his patience with the chit-chat, but he obviously hadn’t expected talk to turn to the Woman. 

“What about her?” Sherlock asked.

“Is she all right?” Miss Tyler asked.

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen her in months,” Sherlock said. If John didn’t know better — or at least didn’t have strong suspicions to the contrary — he’d say his friend was very convincing.

Rose Tyler frowned, opened her mouth to contradict him but sipped her tea instead. The frown disappeared as she seemed to understand. _Oh, but she’s good_ , John thought. He wondered how she and Miss Adler knew each other. Maybe he didn’t want to know. It most certainly was none of his business.

“I’ve been wondering about the Doctor,” Sherlock said.

Miss Tyler stared at him. “Doctor Who?”

“The man in whose company you seemed to have been six years ago,” he said. “Everyone calls him the Doctor.”

“Everyone?” Miss Tyler asked.

“Yes, well, you know. My sources,” Sherlock replied.

“The homeless network,” she said. _She’s really good_. “I’ve done my homework too, Mr Holmes.”

Something about the beginning of a purr in her voice upset Sherlock. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, tugging at his best robe. “Please, call me Sherlock.”

“It’s his name,” she said. “That’s why everyone calls him the Doctor.”

“Even you?”

“Even me,” she said. “Can I ask how you know about him?”

Sherlock studied her for a few moments, then he got up and got the reams of papers he had collected on the Doctor. John knew them, of course, and he had to admit that Sherlock had managed to interest him in that mysterious stranger.

“A website on urban legends, really, and you know how it is with the Internet.”

Miss Tyler smiled. “Oh yes.”

Sherlock showed her the print-outs and photos, among them the one of the Doctor and her crawling from the rubble of 10, Downing Street. But there were also photos of them in war-torn London and a host of other photos of the Doctor by himself. “Oh my,” she said.

“Are you all right?” John asked. It was obvious that the trip down memory lane affected her, and he felt cheap for allowing Sherlock to spring it on her without warning. They had no idea if the memories were happy ones, and Miss Tyler had come to thank them for their work, not to be confronted with this.

“Yes. It’s just a bit… unexpected,” she said, looking up. For a moment it seemed as if she wanted to say something, but she pressed her lips into a thin line.

“Nothing upsetting, I hope?” John asked.

“Well,” she began.

“Who is he, Miss Tyler?” Sherlock urged. He had smelled blood.

Sherlock gave her an appraising look, assessing his options. Rose was a strong woman; she’d not crumble under his hard stare. John realised that Rose must have seen things that had educated her, made her grow up, toughen — but certainly not become jaded. She was too caring for that. 

“If I were a romantic, or a physicist, I’d say he travels in time,” Sherlock says.

“But since you’re obviously neither?” Rose asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. A trickster? A fraud?”

Rose studied her nails, then she looked up. “He’s all of these. And more.”

Sherlock frowned, turning his head a little sideways as if that helped him understand. “What?” His plan of upsetting her to defend the Doctor had backfired. John would have had trouble suppressing his glee if he hadn’t been so intrigued.

“He travels in time,” Rose said soberly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “If you’ve done your homework, Sherlock, you’ll know that the photos are genuine.”

“How does he do that?” John asked, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees.

“He has a time machine,” Rose said. “It’s called the TARDIS.”

“Which stands for…?”

“Time and Relative Dimension in Space.”

“Space?” Sherlock asked. “That explains why he was called in as one of the experts on aliens when the U.F.O. destroyed St Stephen’s.”

Rose frowned. Interesting.

“You’re not supposed to know that,” she said.

“Why?”

“The Doctor released a computer virus to erase all information on him on the Internet,” Rose explained. “But then that does not include information on paper. Or the homeless network.”

Sherlock smiled minutely. Rose was very clever. “Why was he the only expert to leave number 10 alive?”

“He’s an alien,” John pointed out. He sounded very matter-of-fact at first, but then his eyes widened.

Rose remained silent.

“He's an alien, so whatever killed the experts, killed human experts, but not the alien one,” John said.

Sherlock pushed himself up and strode to the window. “Figures.” Then he whirled around. “Would you mind telling us what really happened? When 10, Downing Street blew up?”

Weighing her options, Rose cupped her forehead in her palm. “I suppose I can pay you for your services in stories?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, waving his hand dismissively. Stories, answers – information – were the only currency he really cared about. 

“Just promise me not to blog about them,” she said, straightening and looking at John.

“I promise,” John said, and meant it. 

Rose began to tell them the true story of what had happened that day almost seven years ago.

-:-

Rose was just about to open the door of the cab when she was startled by an “Allow me” and looked over her shoulder to find Sherlock standing close to her, his hand reaching for the handle.

She stepped aside so he could open the door. “Thank you, Rose, for telling me about the Doctor. I've been curious about him for quite a while,” he said. His pale skin glowed in the bright afternoon sunshine and Rose wondered how he managed to keep so cool when she already felt her sticky again.

“It was my pleasure,” she said.

“Was it, though? You seem upset.”

“He changed my life, twice. When he asked me to go with him and when he dropped me off without telling me why,” she explained, straightening her shoulders.

Sherlock gazed at her intently with his feline eyes. They suited him, but she preferred Peter’s big, soulful eyes. She couldn’t wait to see him. “I know the feeling,” Sherlock said.

Rose stared at him.

Then he bent to whisper in her ear. “Irene sends her love, by the way. She asked me to give you this.” He kissed her cheek, his lips lingering a little.

Rose stiffened. “Is she all right?”

“Yes. Now go.” He handed her into the cab that had waited patiently for them to say goodbye. Too late Rose remembered the paps she had spotted upon her arrival. Sherlock closed the door and stepped back.

“Where to, ma’am?” the cabbie asked.

“24, Florence Gardens,” Rose answered, smiling to herself. Let the paps make of that goodbye what they wanted — if it distracted them from her and Peter, all the better. Sherlock would know how to deal with it.

The cabbie nodded and pulled out into the traffic. If they were lucky, they’d just put the major thoroughfares behind them before the rush hour started in earnest.

The journey to Peter’s house didn’t take long. Rose wondered for most of its duration about the conversation she’d just had with Sherlock and John. And, she had to admit, the memory of Sherlock’s — Irene’s — kiss was still very vivid on her skin. Rose wondered if she’d ever hear from her again. She’d really miss her, but she also thought and hoped that she would find a way to contact her that wouldn’t compromise her safety. It had been obvious that Sherlock had lied to her when she’d first asked him. If he’d been lying forJohn’s sake, then he was grossly underestimating him.

But it wasn’t that. He wouldn’t have come after her to thank her for telling him about the Doctor if he hadn’t noticed that talking about him was as difficult for her as it was for him to discuss Irene. He had acknowledged her bravery with the gesture, which was more than he’d ever admit in the solitude of his room. He had done it despite the paps. But that was only part of the why. The other part was why her? Why admit this to her of all people, a stranger?

Rose gnawed at the back of her thumb. She’d never get an answer. She just hoped that whatever Sherlock’s motives were, he felt better now.

“Here we are, ma’am,” the cabbie announced, pulling up to the kerb. Peter’s house was a detached Victorian building shaded by the massive plane trees lining the street. It was set back from the pavement far enough so he could park his car behind the hedge and to leave a narrow strip of greenery to separate the paved front garden from the gorgeous bay window. His front door was protected by a narrow entryway; and the door was painted blue.

Rose smiled. She quickly paid the cabbie and got out. Peter must have been expecting her; he opened the door before she had even knocked and invited her in. It was only after he had closed the door that he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her.

“Hello, Peter,” Rose gasped when they came up for air.

“Hello, Rose,” he grinned, brushing the tip of his nose against hers. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” she drawled. “I’m a bit hot.”

“Oh yes, you are,” he said.

Rose blushed. “No, I mean, I’m all sticky and thirsty,” she replied.

Peter pretended to look crestfallen. Then he took her hand, pulling her behind him along the narrow hall and into the conservatory whose doors were thrown wide. Beyond them, there was a vast jungle of a back garden. “It needs some work, but for now it’s nice and cool,” Peter said. “Pick a seat, I’ll be back with something to drink.”

The conservatory had been added after the former wall had been removed, leaving only a knee-high partition, and the old, shady part of the room was filled with books from floor to the ceiling. A couple of mismatched armchairs were arranged in front of the fireplace. The sunny half of the room held an old iron bedstead that doubled as a sofa. Rose sat on it, running her hand over the cream-coloured throw. Judging by the pile of books beside it — topped by Verity’s book — and the presence of a pair of glasses, Peter used this place a lot. Tilting her head back she enjoyed the view of the deep-blue sky. She wondered if you could see the stars at night. Well, the brightest of them, anyway.

The tinkle of ice cubes caught her attention. Peter stood, looking at her, the glasses on the tray forgotten. “You’re beautiful,” he blurted.

“I’m hot and I’m tired, is what I am,” she said. 

“Come on, it’s cooler outside,” he replied.

Rose stood and followed him. She had to admit that the unkempt garden did have its charm; and it was definitely cooler in the shade of an old sycamore tree. A simple arrangement of folding chairs and a small table were set up beneath it, and Peter headed straight towards it to put down the tray. He gave her a glass of water first.

Then he kissed her.

And then came the wine.

Another kiss.

“Better?” he asked.

“I went to Sherlock’s today,” Rose said, draping her arms around his shoulders. She enjoyed his warmth and the feel of his body against hers. He was so reassuringly solid.

“And?”

“And I thanked him and I told him about the Doctor,” she said.

“Oh.”

“About the Doctor when I first met him,” she explained. “Sherlock knows about him. But I’m not sure if he knows about his ability to regenerate.”

Peter frowned. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

Rose rested her forehead on his shoulder. “I don’t know either,” she whined. “He has his homeless network. What if they’d spotted —“

“Rose,” Peter said, withdrawing a little. She froze.

“What?”

“Are you chasing ghosts?”

“I —“

“Because if you are, and if I only remind you of the Doctor I’m not sure if…”

“Peter! I only knew the Doctor with his big ears and nose and blue eyes,” Rose protested. 

“I’ve been hurt, Rose, badly.”

“So have I,” she said, panic rising. “You don’t remind me of him. But I think… I think what I need is closure. Answers. I need to know why he left me behind.”

Peter looked at her searchingly. What had happened to them snogging each other senseless a few minutes ago? She couldn’t lose Peter. She already knew that, not when she’d already lost PB in a way. Eventually, Peter nodded. “I see.”

“Do you?” she asked.

“Aye. But. Rose. Don’t let him stand between us. I’m sure that one day you’ll get your answers. Life often works that way. He did leave you behind. For a reason. But he also told you to have a great life, right?” Peter said.

Rose felt silly. “Yeah.”

“So have a great life. And I was hoping… I’d be part of it from now on,” he added sheepishly.

Rose smiled. Peter was right. Maybe it was time to stop in spite of the discoveries they had made. Maybe the answer would come if she wasn’t looking for it. “Okay,” she replied.

“Really?”

“Really.”

He took her hand and pressed his lips against her palm, kissing her awake.


	12. Twelve

Twelve

Two o'clock in the morning, something's on my mind  
Can't get no rest, keep walkin' around  
If I pretend that nothin' ever went wrong  
I can get to my sleep, I can think that we just carried on  
— Mika, _Happy Ending_

Peter reached for Rose across the wide expanse of the sheets but Rose’s side of the bed was empty. The thought that he already thought of it as her side of the bed struck him first; then he wondered where she was. “Rose?” he rumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep, his mind still singing with the pleasure of the orgasms he had enjoyed earlier. “Rose?”

Growing more alert, he rolled over to turn on the light on his bedside table. The sheer curtains hung still, the ambient light filtering in through the slats of the shutters painting stripes on them. The room was hot, so he rose to open the shutters. The trees blocked the view and the light from the street. A gentle breeze immediately found a welcome toy in the curtains, stirring them. He padded towards the spot where his pants lay and pulled them on before going in search of Rose. 

He found her on the bed in the conservatory, the breeze coming in through the door caressing her skin. She wore her tiny knickers and a matching, thin camisole. Her gaze was fixed on the sky, Verity’s book open beside her. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. 

“Rose?” he asked softly.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows. “‘m sorry,” she mumbled.

“What for?” Worry was spreading inside him. 

“For sneaking away from you like that. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I just felt lonely and woke,” he said. He carefully sat on the edge of the bed, picking up _A Journal of Impossible Things_. His bookmark was still in place; Rose had read far beyond it. She must have been here a while. Rose had marked her place with the back flap of the dust cover. He hated that but refrained from replacing her bookmark with something else.

Rose sat up, hugging her knees to herself.

“You can tell me,” he began. “Whenever you’re ready. You know you can trust me, aye?”

Rose smiled shakily. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Would you like to be by yourself for a while longer?” he asked although a voice inside him wanted to urge her to come back to bed with him. 

“No, I’m all right,” she said, wiping her cheeks. “I had a dream. And then I remembered something.”

He smiled with relief and encouragement, giving her the time to sort her thoughts. He could sense she wanted to tell him but she was obviously struggling to get the words right. “Listen, love, why don’t we go back upstairs? We could get something to drink first and…”

“Yeah,” she said distractedly. She followed him, lost in thought, first to the kitchen where he poured each of them some water, and then to the bedroom. The breeze had replaced the earthy smell of sex with the scent of the trees. He deposited the glasses on her bedside table and guided her to sit on the bed. He was beginning to worry in earnest when she looked up at him.

“The Doctor. He came to say goodbye,” she said.

“What? When?” 

“When he looked like you. On New Year’s Day 2005,” she said, reaching for one of the glasses and draining most of the water.

Peter’s mind was reeling. The Doctor did travel in time, still it was difficult for him to grasp what that really meant. He’d always imagined that time travel involved going to see events long-past, not short hops within his lifetime. He was also puzzled by the sudden clarity with which Rose remembered that particular encounter.

“It was before I actually met him,” Rose said. “At the time I thought he was just some random drunk bloke who tried to… well, whatever. He told me I’d have a great year. And I did. I met the Doctor. I met him.”

“Wait, wait, Rose,” Peter slowed her down. “Which Doctor did you meet?”

“You!” she blurted, slapping her hand over her mouth after the words had left it. “I mean… John Smith.”

Peter chuckled, kneeling before her and rescuing the tipping glass from between her fingers and putting it on the floor. “I see.”

“I think he was… about to regenerate. When he came to say hello… or goodbye,” Rose continued.

Peter’s eyes widened. “How do you know that?”

“I don’t know how to explain it. I just do,” Rose said, clearly distressed. “I’m sorry, Peter. It’s only now I realised it, probably because I’ve been thinking about him. Then I dreamed of him and when I woke, everything slotted into place all of a sudden. Is it far-fetched?”

“Was he drunk or in pain?” Peter asked.

“I think he was in pain.”

“Poor man. So, he regenerated? And before that he came to see you?” he asked.

Rose nodded. “I think he did. But why didn't he come to meet me in the present? Why say goodbye when I didn’t even know him yet?”

Peter ducked his head. It was obvious, and he thought Rose knew the answer. So he looked up and told her, taking her hands in his. “He didn’t want you to hurt. More. That’s why.” If he listened to the cynic in him he’d say that the Doctor was probably afraid of having to answer her questions. Which, of course, made the question why he had left her behind all the more interesting. “He did come to say goodbye to you. And you did have a great year with him… as the U-Boat captain.”

Rose laughed at his description of him. Peter sagged in relief. “Yeah, that’s true.” She tugged at his hands to draw him up to her, and he scrambled clumsily onto the bed. He held her for a while.

“Do you mind if we finished reading Verity’s book? I’d like to share this one last adventure with him.”

“Of course. Just not tonight, eh?” he asked, brushing her hair back from her face and cupping her cheek to draw her towards him for a kiss.

“How are you feeling?” he asked when they lay side by side, their legs entangled despite the heat.

“Better, thank you,” she said. “I’m so glad I’ve found you.”

He made a ridiculous sound of happiness, then he kissed her again, sliding his hand beneath her camisole. Rose gasped as his fingertips grazed the skin of her stomach. “Ticklish, Miss Tyler?” he asked.

“No. I just… like the way you touch me,” she whispered, her eyes wide in the gentle light of the lamp. She had been crying a few minutes ago, and the tear streaks were still visible on her cheeks. Peter was oddly aware of the breeze stirring the foliage outside and the rustling of the curtains as they swished over the floorboards. The sound of his fingers gliding over Rose’s skin seemed even louder. 

For a moment he hesitated as Rose lifted her hand to explore the arch of his collarbone with her fingers, fearing at first that she wanted him to stop or to push him away. Instead, she shifted towards him for a kiss. He kissed her, but after a while he moved to kiss the tear streaks away; her skin tasted even more salty there. Rose relaxed and lay back in the pillows, looking up at him expectantly. Peter moved his hand beneath the material of her shirt to cup her breast, turning her nipple into a pebble.

“Oh,” Rose sighed, closing her eyes. He wondered if he’d ever stop being amazed at how responsive Rose was to his ministrations.

When he pushed the shirt further up her body she encouraged him to take it off her for the second time that night. Unable to help himself, Peter bent to play with her nipples, suckling the one he wasn’t rolling beneath his thumb. Again, she rewarded him with a sigh and the whisper of his name.

Eventually, he started moving his hand down her stomach and to the edge of her knickers. He wanted to make her come with his fingers and watch her closely before he pushed inside her. 

“Peter,” Rose said as he slid his hand beneath the elastic. “Peter, I want to do something for you.”

He kissed her. “I want to see you come, Rose,” he replied.

“But… you always do that. You spoil me.”

“No, my love. You spoil _me_. I can’t get enough of you. You’re absolutely gorgeous,” he said, punctuating his words with kisses all over her face. “Help me take these off?”

Rose pulled him down to her for another kiss before she lifted her bum and he pulled her knickers off. Her thighs fell open so he could caress her. She was wet already and his fingers slid inside her easily. Rose pushed her shoulders into the bed as she met his strokes. Her face was a mask of sheer pleasure, and while she fisted the sheets with one hand, her fingers sought purchase on the skin of his back.

“Rose, help me,” he said, and she let go of his back as her fingers joined his. He established a rhythm of pumping his fingers in and out of her while she played with her clit. He never glanced down to their joined hands because he didn’t want to miss a single change in her expression. 

“Peter!” she moaned, clamping her thighs around their hands as her eyes went wide and she held his gaze as she crested. If he didn’t know better he’d say she was begging him for help. It was only a brief moment, then her eyelids fluttered shut as the power of her orgasm overtook her.

“Yes, Rose, I’ve got you. Let yourself go,” he encouraged her softly. He’d never seen any woman as beautiful as Rose was when she came in his arms. Her muscles clenched around his fingers as she rolled towards him, crying out.

He held her as she relaxed and enjoyed the heaviness of orgasm weighing down her body. He kissed her, giving her time to recover.

“You all right?” he asked, smiling, as she slowly opened her eyes again.

“Yeah,” she said, her legs falling open. She took his hand and guided it to her mouth to suck his fingers clean. Peter was so amazed at what she was doing that he groaned in disbelief as she swirled her tongue around his fingers. He was hard almost instantly. No woman he had ever been with had done that. 

“Peter?”

“Aye?”

“Get a condom,” she said. “I want you.”

She surprised him again as she straddled him, impatient for him to get rid of his pants and roll the latex down his length. She teased him a little before she took him inside her, kissing him and nibbling the side of his neck. He cried her name when she slid down him in one swift stroke. She was so incredibly warm and soft, her muscles strong as she squeezed them around him. 

“You feel so good,” she said, caressing his chest. Then she bent to lie on top of him. “I want you so badly, Peter. Please.”

“What do you want?” Peter asked, stunned.

“Take me.” She rolled onto her back taking him with her, tilting her pelvis so he slid even deeper into her. “Yes,” she sighed.

Propped on one elbow, Peter reached for the headboard with his other hand and drove himself into her. Rose moaned, her head thrown back to reveal the long line of her neck. He wished he could kiss and lick her there, but this was not the time for finesse. He slid out of her and pushed back, establishing a hard and fast rhythm. He was surprised at the sudden urgency. Hadn’t he been groggy a while ago, wanting to go back to sleep with Rose in his arms?

“Peter!” Rose cried. He could feel her hand against his groin as she brought herself to another orgasm as he worked on his own. He hadn’t wanted it — her — like this but it was too late now. Eventually he noticed that Rose’s hand had fallen away and that she was arching into him, rotating her pelvis slightly as she met his thrusts.

“Peter, please!”

Her muscles clenched around him and as her fingers dug into his bum he felt the tightness in his balls become unbearable. And then he came, releasing into her with a shout, a stream of words flowing from his mouth.

Later, when he rejoined her in bed, Rose was dozing off. She was alert enough to take his hand and pull it up to rest between her breasts as he stretched out behind her. Peter kissed the side of her neck and molded his body against hers. For the first time since he had left Glasgow, he felt that he was doing the right thing. He was in love with the Bad Wolf.

-:-

By the end of the week, a thunderstorm that lasted through the night ended the heat wave. It continued to rain heavily during the day and temperatures dropped so dramatically that John had bundled up in his jacket to keep out the chill . He had visited Harry and had left his umbrella behind on the Tube. By the time he reached 221B Baker Street, he was soaked. But a warm shower was not in the cards because Mycroft Holmes was waiting for him outside Speedy’s Café. Dapper as always beneath his discreet black umbrella, the elder Holmes flicked his cigarette away when John approached. When Mycroft noticed him, he flicked away a cigarette he’d been smoking.

“Shall we?” Mycroft said, gesturing for John to precede him into the café.

They ordered tea but no food. John would have liked one of the delicious-looking sandwiches but didn’t want to be distracted by the food when Mycroft talked to him. Sherlock’s brother was sneaky, and took advantage when he didn’t have people’s full attention. Just like his little brother, he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Particularly if that fool was Sherlock.

Mycroft opened his briefcase and dropped a couple of tabloids on the formica table between them. John knew the pap shots of Sherlock kissing Rose’s cheek outside 221B. One journalist in particular, one Kitty Riley, had been most imaginative about the nature of the kiss. Sherlock had acknowledged the story with a long-suffering “Oh please,” and moved on to work on his latest project.

“So, is Miss Tyler cheating on Sherlock with DCI Carlisle, or is it the other way round?” Mycroft asked.

John looked up. “I don’t know. What do you think?”

Mycroft leaned back. “I think they’re putting on a show,” he said.

John quirked an eyebrow. He certainly hadn’t expected that reply. “Why would they do that?”

“Why else would Sherlock kiss a woman?”

“He’s done it before. Kiss a woman,” John pointed out.

Mycroft smiled in contempt. But when John held his gaze evenly, the infuriating smile disappeared. “No.”

John folded his arms. 

“Why did he kiss Miss Tyler? And who else did he kiss? Not Miss Adler?”

John snorted. “You’ll have to ask him that yourself.”

They both knew that that would never happen, and Mycroft knew John well enough to know that he’d never betray his friend. “You and I both know that will never happen.”

“What do you want, Mycroft?” John asked, acknowledging their arriving tea with a friendly smile at the proprietor.

Mycroft put a folder on top of the newspapers. It was plastic, had a zip and held a very familiar-looking mobile phone. “Is this Irene Adler’s file?” John asked.

“Closed for ever. I was just going to inform my brother, or, rather, you are, that she has somehow got herself on a witness protection scheme in America. New name, new identity. He’s never going to see her again,” Mycroft explained.

John looked at him. “Why would he care? He despised her at the end. Won’t even mention her name. He only referred to her as the Woman.”

“Is that loathing, or a salute?”

John knew it was the latter, and he knew it wasn’t necessary to answer.

“She got herself killed two months ago, by a terrorist cell in Karachi,” Mycroft continued.

John shrugged, skeptical. Irene had fooled them all into believing she’d died once before, including Sherlock who had identified a body that had Irene’s measurements but a conveniently bashed-up face.

“It would take Sherlock to fool me, and I don’t believe he was at hand,” Mycroft said, interpreting John’s expression correctly. John hoped that he wasn’t giving himself away then. Sherlock had gone away for a few days a couple of months ago. It was, John recalled, the first in a long line of visits to The Dunes. So he’d been right after all. Sherlock had rescued Miss Adler somehow, and he had hidden her away at The Dunes, right under his brother’s nose.

“How?”

“She was beheaded.”

John frowned.

“It’s definitely her. I was thorough. This time.”

John inclined his head, afraid of betraying himself and Sherlock if he said anything. “So, what are we going to tell him?”

“My brother has the mind of a philosopher or a scientist, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce from that about his heart?”

“I don’t know.”

“Initially, he wanted to be a pirate.”

John suppressed a smirk, nodded, finished his tea and picked up the file.

“I’ll leave it up to you what you tell him,” Mycroft said.

John pursed his lips. _Of course you will._

“John?” Mycroft called after him as he was halfway to the door. “What about Miss Tyler?”

But John waved dismissively and shook his head for good measure. Some mysteries were best left alone. He smiled to himself as he stepped outside. The rain had finally let up.


End file.
